Water Canvas
by The Kapok Kid
Summary: Lines between old cases and new ones, old friends and new ones, the past and the present, are not always precisely drawn.
1. Discovery

Water Canvas

Chapter 1 – Discovery

* * *

He was the one who found her.

The day was bright, as all the summer had been this year. The sunlight pierced through the tangle of leaves and vines overhead as smoothly as a knife through butter, and made the sweat run down his brow in little streams, sticking his hair limply to his forehead and eyelashes. The sound of voices from the other side of the river path echoed in his ears like the buzzing of a swarm of tiresome bees.

The air became lighter with every step he took, closer to the water. He stepped off the path, and stood right on the edge of the river bank, the water running up the tops of his shoes, grabbing at his laces with icy fingers. Further out, the lake was light, polished and glassy smooth, the still reflections of the trees on the distant bank drawn with long, precise lines. Closer to him, among the tangle of reeds and rushes spilling into the lake from the bank, the water was darker, broken up with churned mud and gravel, the murkiness relieved only by a large pale smudge about ten yards away from him.

Dusk was falling, but no moon could make such a large splotch of colour.

Morse waded in two steps, and squinted.

Skin like marble and a length of blue and yellow material.

Pausing only to divest himself of his coat and already sodden shoes and toss them onto the shore, he plunged into the lake.

Six swift strokes had him right up against the body. It was heavier than he expected, with an arm wedged against a piece of driftwood, and one end of the material, which appeared to be either a shawl or a scarf, caught up in a mass of stalks.

Pulling it against him, struggling all the way, Morse made it to the edge, tossed the body up onto the grass, then scrambled up the bank himself, unmindful of the lacerations the ascent left on his knees, or the tears in his last pair of good trousers.

.

.

"Bloody hell, Matey, you gave me a right turn there."

Shivering, and dripping water from the ends of his hair, despite the brisk towelling he'd given it, Morse looked up at Jim Strange. Sergeant Strange, Morse supposed he should call him now, but glancing at the dusty shoes caked with mud from his sprint along the road, the blue uniform with rapidly-tarnishing brass buttons, the clear eyes with their unvarying kindly light, the word refused to form around his tongue.

Strange seated himself comfortably on a nearby tree stump. "You're the finding all the bodies these days," he observed, when Morse didn't answer, "you didn't know this one, did you?"

Morse shook his head, then held his breath to supress a sneeze that threatened to erupt when a trickle of water went into his nostril. "I don't know her. Slightly familiar – might have seen her around the town, but I can't put a name to the face."

"A rum thing, this. Even that last one – shot in the face, then fell into the water. This one doesn't look like a shooting, at any rate."

But everything else was eerily familiar. Lying on the grass, covered up with a plastic sheet until the medical team arrived, it was easy enough to imagine that the indigo and ochre silk dress was a black and white dress suit, that the blue and yellow scarf was a bowtie, that the shoes were black and polished instead of worn down satin high heels. Morse rubbed vigorously at his rapidly bluing lips, biting down on one corner, letting the sour tang of blood collect on his tongue when teeth met flesh. His spot on the grass under a tree could have been the same; even the stripes of the blanket Strange had draped around his shoulders looked familiar.

Strange was looking concernedly at him now. "You all right, Matey? Not about to catch your death of cold?"

Morse grinned crookedly. "I hardly think a five minute dip in a lake on a summer's night will kill me, Strange."

"Ah well, you never know. All it took last time was a bout of chopping firewood in your shirtsleeves and tie."

"I'll make sure and wear a coat next time," Morse said dryly.

Strange coughed. "What were you doing here all alone at this time? Not the safest place for a loner."

"There's a logger's cabin on the other side. Any trouble, and all I'd have had to do was shout. And it's on my way home." It was the long way home, a winding, twisting path that went by Bruce's house – now closed up, with the front gates padlocked and chained, and past Bix's too, where the Uniform were packing up and moving out the last of his possessions.

Taking off his helmet, Strange wiped his brow with a handkerchief, then dropping his hands back into his lap, twisted the slip of wet material in his fingers. "You… well, you weren't thinking… things, were you?"

Morse stared. "Things?"

"Or going to – to, you know – if there's any help you need, anything at all, you can ask."

Morse flicked his eyes to the body, now a shapeless form in the falling dusk, then to the water, which was breaking up in the distance too now, the surface rising in ripples to the wind's command. "I'm fine," Morse said finally. "Perfectly fine."

He let the silence fester, to grow and expand in the darkness, filling out the nooks and crannies of the woodlands that the streetlamp above their heads could not reach.

.

.

When the light was completely gone from the furthest reaches of the lake, Morse spoke again, voicing aloud the thought that had been niggling at him. "Were there any reports of girls missing from the area?"

"None at all in the past twenty four hours. Could have come from further afield – Dispatches from Carshall Newton won't be making their way through till tomorrow. She looks like she was dressed for a party too. Not much to amuse a girl of that age in this neck of the woods that would justify dressing up, mind you. She wasn't at any of this Bixby's parties, I suppose?"

"No – he did have fancy dress balls and masques, but nothing that would explain a costume of that type." Morse chewed the inside of his cheek, making a deliberate effort to keep his hands still in his lap. "Could have been killed somewhere else, then brought and dumped here. But there are no drag marks or disturbances of any sort in the undergrowth."

"There's a place a few miles up from the turning to the lake," Strange said. His voice had a curiously hesitant note. "A sort of boarding school for girls."

Morse eyed Strange closely. "A sort of boarding school – but not exactly?"

"A vocational school, more like. The lasses from the roundabout villages board there in term time. Mate of mine working at Richardson's had a sister there for a year or two. Could have come from there, this one." Strange nodded towards the corpse. "They have all these dos at the town and village halls. Could have got into a bit of trouble up at one of those."

Morse shrugged. "Rather far from this isolated body of water."

"What better way to dispose of the body – give the killer a bit of time to get away."

"Didn't find any luggage on her? No note – or a bag, or anything?"

"Haven't had the chance to look, have I, Matey? I'm to hand you over to the old man first."

"I told you, I can look after myself." Morse couldn't quite keep the bite out of his voice.

"I'm not contesting that," Strange said quietly, putting his handkerchief back in his pocket.

Morse sighed, and stretched out his legs. His thighs and calves were beginning to stiffen. "She couldn't have been killed up at the circus and dumped here afterwards?"

"The circus packed up and left two nights ago."

"What? Really – why?"

"Circus folk don't like murder in their midst." Strange gazed with unseeing eyes at the dark, still lake. "And with their magic show now disbanded, and all those drugs" –

It was true. In all those nights of rambling walks, following the trails towards the lake, his own ramshackle rented hut and the two great empty houses on the other side, he had never gone near the circus grounds, shutting off the memories of those nights at the booths, the throb of his pulse as he aimed at the soft toys with the pop-gun, closing his nose and refusing, even in his mind, to breathe in the sweet and heady perfume of Kay.

Since the file was closed, he hadn't spared a thought for the people behind the brightly painted front of Janus Greel and Conrad. "A purse will turn up, I expect," Morse said, drawing himself back to the present with an effort, "or a school bag, or a satchel. Though it probably won't be leopard print." He shrugged off the woollen blanket and rose to his feet, when the sound of two cars became audible on the other side of the road, signalling the arrival of Inspector Thursday and Dr De Bryn.

.

.

When Morse walked into the mortuary the next morning, the body was laid out on the slab, and Dr De Bryn was standing over it. He eyed Morse over the rims of his spectacles. "None the worse for your ice bath last night, I see."

Morse scoffed. "The water was not that cold. And contrary to everybody's assumptions, I actually do not have a death wish."

De Bryn's lips rose in the beginnings of a wry smile. "That knife wound giving you much trouble yet?"

"No limp, as you can see." The bruise, though healed, had a tendency to twinge on and off, though Morse would not give De Bryn the satisfaction of telling him that.

"Fifteen," Dr De Bryn said shortly. "Sixteen at most. Been dead about ten hours at time of discovery, I'd say. Death was not instantaneous. Strangled, by the edges of the scarf, which the killer then proceeded to tie around her hair."

"How do you know that?"

"It is a headscarf, Morse." De Bryn pulled out a pair of forceps, and took up a thin strand of thread from an open bowl. "Thread found in one of the neck bruises matches the material of the scarf. Judging by the intensity of colour, and the depth of the scratches, I'd say she was strangled from behind. She struggled, but only for a short while."

"Sneaked up behind her? It would have been easy, if it was someone she knew – unsuspecting" –

De Bryn nodded. "And then, hey, as it were, presto."

They were silent for a long moment, staring down at the corpse. In the harsh white mortuary light, the skin was paler than ever, bloated and blue at the edges, the eyes swollen shut, mottled creases on the skin where the frock was pressed against the flesh before being cut away. Coral pink lipstick, and a large tear in the left earlobe, the skin curling inwards from the rent edges. "She looks familiar," Morse said, brow wrinkling.

De Bryn sighed. "She was a pretty girl." Even in death, a shadow of grace remained. Framed, despite the cold slab of steel beneath her, like a painting.

 _A painting._

An icy hand gripped Morse's heart. "A painting – that's what she reminds me of. She looks like a painting" –

He had seen it before. Recently. One amongst many, hung not in a dimly illuminated gallery amongst other masterpieces, but mounted on a golden easel, too still, too perfect to be anything but a copy. Part of a collection, both valued and valueless, silent witness to the brilliant and entertaining antics of its owner.

De Bryn moved one end of the covering cloth with gloved fingers, peering intently into the girl' face, then flicking his eyes towards her clothing, which lay, bagged and labelled on his desk. "Ah," he said, sucking in breath in a hiss reminiscent of a snake, "the fruits of Dutch labour; Girl with a Pearl Earring."

"She's dressed like the painting all right, but in that case" –

"The million pound question," Dr De Bryn said quietly, "where are the pearl earrings?"

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	2. Links

Water Canvas

Chapter 2 – Links

* * *

Gently, degree by gradual degree, the stark, helium-white light of the mortuary gave way to the golden sunlight with every step Morse climbed. At last, when he stood on the topmost step outside the building, and surveyed the streets of the town, sunbeams unravelled like octopus tentacles and gripped him gently about the face and chin. Mother's fingers, he thought in an absurd fit of sentiment, living flesh, touching the roofs and chimneys of Oxford. Yesterday, a source of discomfort, but today the sun was the very opposite.

There was no point in going back to Cowley Station right away, since it was well into the lunch hour, and Inspector Thursday and Peter Jakes were probably sitting down to their meal at the local pub. Morse made his way up the road and around the corner to the pub, scuffed shoes stirring up the dust on the pavement.

He ducked his head against the low-hanging lintel of the White Horse's front door, breathing in grease and beer and potato chips, eyes raking the quiet gloom in search of his colleagues, ears straining to catch their voices amidst raucous cheers and the clink of china. Their usual table directly opposite the bar counter was occupied a noisy group of young working women – secretaries, or typists, if the shine on their cuffs and the blots on their fingers were any indication.

Behind them, visible clearly when one of the girls bent to retrieve her handbag, was Peter's well groomed dark head. He and Thursday were seated at a side table by the window. Wending his way between three other tables and four waitresses, Morse stood directly behind Inspector Thursday, who was just unwrapping his lunch.

.

.

"Luncheon meat," Morse said, just loud enough for Thursday to hear.

Thursday jumped. Peter chuckled into his glass.

"Never felt a sense of happy anticipation, have you," Thursday grumbled.

"It's Tuesday, Sir," Morse said. He folded himself into the chair next to Peter. "I've just been to see Dr De Bryn. She's a painting."

Peter scoffed. "She's a dead body, mate. If she was made of canvas and pigments you'd think we'd have noticed."

Morse rolled his eyes. "She's dressed like one. The Girl with the Pearl Earrings – Vermeer's famous tronie."

Peter looked blank, but Thursday nodded thoughtfully. "Nothing has turned up on the fancy dress theory? It's still the most probable."

"I asked Strange to check. There were no reports of parties or balls within a five mile radius of Lake Silence this week."

"And have all the dispatches come through?"

"Carshall New Town came in this morning, Sir. But Cacklebury and Carson Downs were delayed."

"They should be in by late afternoon," Peter added, lighting up one of his eternal cigarettes, and inhaling a deep breath. A smattering of light ash landed on the collar of his pristine shirt; he brushed it away with a delicate swipe of long fingers. "If they aren't, I'll go up and collect them myself." He glanced at Morse, swiftly, sharply. "No communication from Blythe Mount?"

Morse shook his head. "Nothing at all." Complete silence since their exposure of the school ghost, and the tragic death of Maud Ashenden.

"Maybe a line from your friend, that girl – Binty? Bunty?"

Bunty Glossop. He had no way of knowing whether she was still even at the school. Every time he turned over his creased and crumpled copy of _Through the Looking Glass,_ every time he mouthed the familiar lines from the poem, she rose in his mind's eye, desperate hands clawing at Black's skin, lips and teeth tearing into his arms…

Irritation pooled like lava in his stomach. "Nothing," he snapped at Peter, who looked up, surprised, from the cigarette butt he was stubbing out on the ashtray.

Inspector Thursday glanced up quickly, but Morse ignored him.

"All right," Peter said, a trace of his former sharpness creeping into his tones. "All I'm saying is, you should keep in contact with these people. You'll never know where they can be of use to you."

Morse clenched his fists. The skin stung when his nails ridges along tiny lacerations on his palms, which had gone unnoticed before. "Are you questioning my policing methods?"

"No question there," Peter said. He let the last of the cigarette fall from his fingers, and swallowed his beer in a single gulp. "You're the weirdest copper I've ever seen. You're cracked, mate. You produce the goods all right, but you've no idea how to get along with normal people, have you?"

And then, it came creeping over him, the slow, thick sludge of a weariness that was both ancient and familiar. It dripped into the hollows of his chest and throat, clogging them, rendering his movements dull and heavy, and baffling him because it denied analysis.

So, biting his words back, he stared at Peter.

Inspector Thursday put down the crust of his sandwich, and nodded to Morse. "How about this other school you mentioned yesterday? That's another plausible line of enquiry."

"Strange has probably made enquiries, Sir. I haven't had the chance to speak with him yet. But there's something else" –

"What?"

"That picture – I've seen it before" –

"You already said it was famous," Peter broke in.

"No, no, recently. A copy, in Bixby's art gallery."

Peter snorted. "Trust you to go to a party and end up ogling the paintings."

"The place is close to the lake." Morse ignored Peter – he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately – and addressed himself to Thursday. "I don't think Bix monitored guest circulation. Anybody could have got in" –

"The body could have just as easily floated downstream from the villages ahead of Cacklebury," Peter pointed out.

Morse scoffed in his turn. "And come to rest, ten miles away in a still lake in the middle of the woods?"

"Tangled up in the rushes, wasn't she? And she wouldn't have been noticed if you hadn't been in the water itself."

Morse stiffened. "How did you know I was in the water?"

"Jim wrote up the report last night itself."

"Been talking behind my back, have you?" Morse's voice rose on the last note, and the group of young women looked around in alarm. Peter held his gaze, eyes dark with something warmer than anger.

"There's nothing more at the manor," Thursday said abruptly, rising from his chair. "Whatever's left will be classified and untouchable."

Morse swung round, following the Inspector out, heedless of the wary looks that were thrown his way from the rest of the patrons. "I know. I saw them packing up, moving all the furniture out. But the manor is still worth a visit. It isn't out of bounds."

Peter shut the door behind them, and immediately lit another cigarette. "Uniform have already brought most of the things to the nick. You can rummage through there to your heart's content. But what if the house has been let again?"

"It hasn't been," Morse said falling into step beside Peter. "There's no notice on the gate. I'll go up there tonight and see," he added. "There might be something to be found."

.

.

Strange had made inquiries. He looked up from his desk in the incident room when the three of them entered, and pushed a sheaf of typewritten paper into Inspector Thursday's hands. Morse and Peter both shed their coats and took seats at their respective desks.

"Dispatches," Thursday commented briefly, looking the papers over.

"Yes, Sir," Strange said, rising to his feet, and mopping his perspiring brow with a standard issue handkerchief. "Nothing of interest anywhere. An absconding dog from the Grey Goose over at Cacklebury, and" –

" _Absconding_ dog?" Peter echoed with interest. "Since when do dogs abscond?"

"He doesn't live there, according to the pub owner. He comes round for lunch, usually, but he hasn't been seen around for a week or so."

Blowing smoke upwards towards the grimy ceiling in small, perfectly formed spirals, Peter leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs luxuriously. "You went all the way the way down there to interview them, Jim?"

"No." Strange's voice was touched with barely discernible impatience. "Bloke sent in a full account." He tapped a thick paper on his desk. "I've had to summarise it for the report."

"Do we have a description of the dog?" Thursday asked, turning over to the next page.

"White, Sir, with black legs and a black patch on the left ear."

Thursday nodded. "We'll pass it on to Uniform, and let them keep an eye out. Missing property will be looking at it already." Pausing, he squinted at the type at the bottom of the page. "What's this about a lost cricket trophy from Carson Downs?"

Morse jerked his head up so hard he got a crick in his neck. He left his desk, and stopping beside the Inspector, ran a finger down the paragraph in question. "A missing dog, and now a missing trophy? Sir, I think" –

"He thinks the dog ran away with the trophy," Peter interrupted.

"It's possible," Morse insisted. Then suddenly, with a rush, the fight dropped out of him, and he felt his shoulders sag. It was a familiar sensation around Peter; his not-quite-friend's variance was hard to bear, the ups and downs of his moods struck at Morse with the force of the turning tide. "Harry Rose," Morse continued tiredly, "he could be involved in this."

Thursday glanced at Peter, then at Morse. "Go on, then."

"It's something Bix said, at the party. A football trophy – missing, and a dog found it. But according to Bix, it was just a cover. Harry Rose recovered the trophy."

Peter snickered. "Or he commissioned the dog to find it for him."

Morse glanced at Peter, brows lowering. "We can't rule out his involvement without investigating it further."

"Oh, anything's possible," Peter said darkly, "but you seriously don't think it's directly relevant to this death, do you? Missing trophies and absconding dogs are not our province."

"I still think it's worth following up" –

"You do it, then." Peter threw down his cigarette and stared defiantly at Morse. "I'm not chasing non-existent canines all over the county."

"There's a link between the two cases – if they are actually two, and not one" –

"A very tenuous link," Peter argued. "The word of your friend – who's dead, by the way" –

"I saw it," Morse snapped, goaded into irritation by the slow, slick drawl of the other. Thursday moved to lay a hand on his shoulder, but he sidestepped quickly, moving up towards Peter's desk. "And I'm not crazy yet, whatever you might think. I saw that painting in his gallery, and I know there is a link."

Stepping away, the colour already draining from his cheeks, he eyed Strange. "Have Bixby's possessions been brought in and labelled?"

"It's here, Matey," Strange said, in subdued tones. "Uniform have finished bringing it in; it's all laid out in the evidence room."

.

.

Morse checked the three boxes containing the paintings out of the evidence room and set them up in one of the rarely used side rooms.

The incident room was very well suited to dynamic inquiries, with rows of faces of suspects and victims sellotaped to the frosted glass partitions on three sides of the room, and the ceaseless, out-of-focus clatter of constables busy at their typewriters, a constant buzzing at the fringes of his auditory range. That was also the problem – too much sound, too much activity, too much humanity. For quiet thought, for the sudden connections that formed in his mind, brighter than diamonds, swifter than lighting, the restful atmosphere of the side room was perfect.

The panting of the girl was in the third box. He lifted it out carefully by the edges, mindful of the gilt streaks that came away from the frame, where they had come loose from the heat in the box. He laid it out on the counter where an old kettle and toaster were kept, and sat staring at it, back propped up against the table at the far end.

His memories of looking at this particular painting in Bix's gallery were blurred. Elva Piper had distracted him for the first few minutes, and then, there was Bix, emerging from the gloom...

Morse shook his head to clear it, and looked attentively at the painting. Oil on canvas, the brush strokes clear and vibrant – more vibrant than they'd have been if it was not a fake. The skin of the girl was smooth, pale cream, dipping down from a well formed and youthful brow to a slight blush in the cheeks.

A step sounded in the doorway. He was aware of a new presence, the vaguest shadow beyond his line of sight.

"Quite a picture, isn't it?" Peter moved inside, shut the door behind him, and came to stand beside Morse.

"Quite. She looks like this, the dead girl – very much so."

Tilting his head slightly, dark eyes widening, Peter took in the canvas. "The clothes are not exactly the same. The colours are similar enough, I reckon, but the collar and sleeves look different."

"She was a child. It's not likely she'd have been able to lay hands on exactly the same costume."

"Make a list of costumers and go round," Peter suggested.

Morse grunted. "There'll be very little use. The clothes off the body looked handmade. There wasn't a label from a shop or a laundry, either."

"We'll get Uniform to do a round and have a look, anyway."

Morse nodded warily, loathe to argue further. "The earrings are missing," he told Peter, striding up to the canvas, and tapping the visible earring with his index finger.

Peter perched on the table, put his hands into his pockets, and shrugged. "Plain or garden robbery, then."

"Hardly, if the earrings were real pearl."

"Can't say, can we, without identification? They might have been a gift. Or she could have pilfered them from somewhere. Might pay to go through jewellers' and pawnbrokers' lists as well."

"There's only one in the painting," Morse observed.

"So what – the girl only wore one earring? Or one was real, and the other was counterfeit?"

"Then the fake one wouldn't have been removed from her ear, don't you think?"

"Maybe the thief didn't know it was fake."

"Maybe," Morse conceded. The ring from her left ear was taken out by force."

"A snug fit, then." Peter's voice was quiet, serious.

"Made for her. A boyfriend – or a brother."

Peter nodded. "Her young man's a fair bet." He paused, sniffing the air and wrinkling his nose. "Something stinks like wet leather, mate. Sure it's not your shoes?"

Without meaning to, Morse rubbed one sole down the back of his already damaged trouser leg. "Probably. It was completely soaked last night."

"Didn't dry it by the fire?"

Mors shot Peter a glare. "I don't light fires in the middle of summer."

"That's right," Peter muttered under his breath, "just leave them to stink." But he made no further comments on that score as Morse reached out, took the frame, and packed in carefully back into the box again, adjusted the cloth wrappings around the rest of the pictures.

"Still think there is a connection to the missing trophy?" Peter asked after a minute's silence.

"Yes," Morse huffed. He piled the three boxes into his arms, and turning on his heel, made his way out of the side room. "How clear do I have to make it" –

"Mate," Peter said softly, "like I said, they could be related. But that chance is small. Likely, they're two separate inquiries" –

"I know, I'm not" –

"You're not listening," Peter rapped out sharply. H closed in on Morse, so close he could feel the taller man's tweed sleeve brush against the wool of his own coat, and see their mingled shadow thrown up against the incongruous lime green of the corridor wall paint. "Bixby was an odd egg, all right – no wonder you were friends, but that's just it, don't you see?"

Morse stared, uncomprehending.

Peter exhaled. "Don't let your good sense be clouded by friendship is all I'm saying, mate. You can't do justice to your friend – or to the kiddie who died – that way."

"Don't worry," Morse said abruptly, shaking out of Peter's grasp, "I have it under control." Stepping cautiously, mindful of the stack of teetering boxes, breath catching painfully in his chest with every stride, he sought the incident room once more.

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	3. Impressions

Water Canvas

Chapter 3 - Impressions

* * *

Darkness had fallen before he finished pinning up the pictures of the victim and the crime scene on one of the frosted walls, pencil scratching on the smooth photo paper as he marked out connections, circled links. Inspector Thursday left at seven, with a nod and short reminder to take himself off before the nick was quite empty.

"I'll leave as soon as I finish this off," Morse said, not wishing to make a promise he did not intend to keep.

Peter was the next to leave, fumbling awkwardly and uncharacteristically with his coat on the row of pegs on the wall nearest the door. He looked at Morse over his shoulder. "Go home, Morse. Past time for your last bus out."

Morse glanced up from the case file. "I will, once I've got the details clear."

Peter hesitated, pausing in the doorway, tall, lean form silhouetted in the yellowish light from the soffit lamp. He seemed to be about to say something – perhaps the customary offer for a pint that was very rarely accepted – then shrugged, swallowed his words, and stepped gracefully out.

He worked his way systematically through the file for the next thirty minutes, while Cowley Station grew quiet around him, and the streetlights outside his window brightened. The hisses and groans of the old building settling down was all that was audible, until a heavy tread sounded in the corridor, and Sergeant Strange poked in head in.

Morse smiled. "I thought you'd gone off for the night."

Strange – he could not yet bring himself to call him Jim off-duty – walked to Morse's desk, and leaned against it, panting slightly. "I'm not here, strictly speaking. I went round to the White Horse to meet me mate from Richardson's. You're in luck." He looked meaningfully at Morse. "His sister's back at that school for the summer term. Bit of an uproar going on. Girl's gone missing last night. Likely to be your case."

Brow wrinkling, Morse shuffled through the missing persons reports on his table. "Why didn't they report it?"

Strange shrugged. "Oh you know, these lady school types don't like to bring the police in until there's nothing else for it."

"The girl has lost her life, and all they can think of is scandal," Morse said sharply.

"You're not one hundred percent sure it is her," Strange pointed out.

"Bound to be. None of the other inquiries fit the bill. Did you get a name?"

"Nah. My mate didn't know. Couldn't speak to his sister this late, either" –

"We'll head down there soon and see what we can find."

"The old man won't stand in your way, but you'll be lucky if you can get permission from the Superintendent without a formal report."

"I'll handle that," Morse said with a decisive nod.

Strange tilted his head, considering Morse with honest eyes for an instant, then shrugged. "Better you than me," he said, walking to the door. "It's the Meadowfield Vocational Centre, just six miles up the turning to Cacklebury from Lake Silence."

Morse nodded, noted down the address, and raised a hand in farewell as Strange gently shut the door behind him.

.

.

The door to Superintendent Bright's office was ajar when Morse slipped out into the corridor and put on his coat. Perhaps he had made some noise, because the man himself had appeared at the door swing in an instant. "Ah, Morse," he said, turning his head slightly, so the lenses of his glasses glinted.

"Sir."

"Made good progress with your case, hmm?"

"Fair progress. There's nothing concrete yet, but we've got several suggestive points to see to, tomorrow."

Bright stepped right out into the corridor, and flicked on the electric light with a swift twist of its wrist. Morse blinked, gaze falling down as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness of the space. When he recovered and looked up, smoothing the tie and sleeves that had been crumpled by his sudden movements, Bright was gazing at him, eyes sharp and dark.

"This is the case of the dead girl, isn't it?"

"The body is at the morgue. We haven't got positive identification, but we suspect she's a student at a vocational school near Cacklebury."

"You found the body, I have been told."

Morse nodded. "I saw it, when I was walking on the river path."

Bright passed a hand over his chin, bluing slightly with the day's growth of stubble. "You're staying out near Lake Silence still, aren't you?"

"I am. I have lodgings for the summer there."

"Well. Well, we're all glad to see you back, and in fighting trim, what?"

"Of course." There is no longer reply Morse could have made without seeming either effusive or stilted, but he hoped the gratefulness he felt showed through nevertheless.

"Young life, Morse," the Superintendent continued, eyes still fixed on his face. The crow's feet around the edges of his eyelids, the lines on his forehead, etched there through fifty years' worth of ceaseless worry were as clear as newly cut diamonds in the acidic glare of the unshaded bulb. "First that Bixby boy" – a sudden deepening of his glance, so fleeting it almost went unnoticed – "and now this girl. Youth, my boy. The conundrum of the ages. Nothing as strong as youth, and nothing as frail as youth. We think when we are young that we will live forever, but then, in an instant, the thread of life is cut away forever. And then, here we are, in the eternal cycle; questions and inquisitions and arrests" –

" _Vitam regit fortuna, non sapientia,"_ Morse murmured under his breath.

The words were soft, so quiet they were almost swallowed up in the hush of the night, but Bright's quick ear caught them. "Quite," he said. "Quite right, Morse." Reaching behind him, he snapped the door of his office shut, obliterating the sliver of pale gold that shone through the crack. "After much… official deliberation, your inquiry has been nullified. The documents will come through shortly."

"Inspector Thursday informed me, Sir."

"Of course, of course. Should any problem arise in that regard – or any other, any at all – my door is always open. Well, well, goodnight, Morse. Don't burn the midnight oil too long." With a final nod, Bright stepped carefully around Morse, and strode out of sight.

Morse followed him in short order, footsteps echoing loudly in the emptiness of the space. Along the sides of the corridor leading off the incident room were arrayed the piles of cardboard crates which held the contents of Bixby's house. The paintings, of course, but also the relics of his circus days, and the dissembled components of the hydroplane. It was strange, Morse thought, sidling lightly past the snoozing duty constable, pulling the front door open and stepping onto the pavement, it was strange indeed how a man's life could be picked apart so easily, and packaged into boxes and shoved into corners to gather dust through the years.

.

.

True to Peter's warning, the last bus had long gone, so Morse decided to postpone his visit to the manor for the next morning.

The sun was low over the waters of the lake when he awoke. Wakefulness never came to him as he had read it should, in degrees, like the gentle coolness of an in-running tide, but it hit him, always, with the force of a whiplash, chilling him to the bone as effectively as a bucket of ice upended on his head. He sat up, dazed, rubbing a hand through his bird's nest of hair, and peered out blearily through the gaps in the curtain windows. Skies tarred with the last vestiges of pink and grey, the lake lapping at the snared roots of the trees where they dipped their branches over the banks, the flapping of birds' wings as they dove and skimmed to pick up their breakfast of fish.

The promise of a clean and windy day, cooler than it had been so far, and perhaps a cloudburst to be expected before evening.

Morse scrambled out of bed and into his shirt and tie, snatched up a heavier coat than usual for better measure, and locked his door carefully behind him. Thursday's sudden appearance in his hut hadn't been unexpected or unwelcome, but he didn't think he could take it in stride if anybody else at the station decided to pay him another surprise visit.

The route to the manor was much the same as it had been on his last call there. The tracks of the police transport were imprinted faintly on the earth, but the dryness of the intervening days and nights had erased any footmarks that may have been left by pedestrians. There was more than a stiff breeze; it made his coat flap around his legs, and threw up a dust so fine as to be almost invisible, until it laid a thin, yellowish veneer over his shoes, and made him gasp and splutter when he breathed it in.

Round the last bend lay the manor. The gates were shut, and two thick, interlinking chains laid over the bars, tarnished silver clinking when he rattled the padlock that secured them together. The front fence was sheer, over fifteen feet tall, without any footholds that would hold his weight. For some moments, he debated. Of course, he could always go back to the nick and rescue the key from Evidence, and make a study of the place on his way back home tonight. But that would mean more delay. Besides, Uniform had been over every inch indoors with a fine tooth comb. There would be nothing for him there, in the staircases thrown wide, the marble steps laid over with dust, the statues in the galleries, stifled and rigid in their dust sheets.

No, if there was anything to read, a hint, a clue, some glimmering of light at the end of this twisted tunnel, it would lie in the bits and pieces of Bixby's life, the forgotten corners and crevices.

He searched the garage first. It turned up nothing of interest except the faded tyre marks of Bix's fleet of cars. They'd learned that the cars had been acquired from a dealership – Teddy Samuels' replacements – but all was square, above board.

He didn't even have to close his eyes; he saw them now as they had stood then, amongst the cars, when Bixby had offered him the Jag – and a job.

More than a job. They'd both known it.

Sometimes, for fleeting moments, he wondered what would have happened if he'd accepted the offer. Better pay, a permanent home. And more perhaps, a shifting of rails, the clicking into place of misaligned gears, square pegs in square holes.

 _A straight bat, old man._

That was the appeal, and that was the gift. Morse had spent enough of his life amongst the bent and the downright crooked, but here, where lives and empires sprang out of rhyme and verse and ink and dusty paper, there was a freshness that lingered long after their crafter's death. Charlie Greel, for all the whirlwind of gaiety and mystery that had accompanied him, was all right. Morse had done what he could by him – but it didn't feel enough. It never felt enough.

Harry Rose, however, was a different matter entirely.

Joss Bixby's life had been a legitimate front. So it naturally followed that his home could well have been a storehouse for Rose. Gambling, cards, slot machines, heroin stuffed in soft toys, matches and tournaments fixed, players manipulated. There were no records to be found on his own premises, but they could be here, somewhere.

Morse left the garage, and went around the back, to the boathouse. It was fully light now, but even so, the path leading to the hut and pier at the edge of the water was partially obscured by trees. Silence, an apt name; vast expanses of nothing but that, and layers upon layers of misty blue-green trees, stretching as far, and further, than the naked eye could see. And at the very end, huddled, as though trying to make itself invisible, was the derelict timber boathouse.

The battered door swung open without protest under his fingers. All the boats had been taken away, and in the centre were still-fresh marks where the hydroplane had stood. The atmosphere was saturated with damp, and rot was beginning to form on some of the floor planks. He turned around, eyes flicking to the one tiny, grime encrusted window.

That was all – greyish gloom, and the lasting stench of neglect. He wouldn't be surprised if there was a cockroach infestation under the floorboards, either, or in the broken down old chest in the –

Morse blinked.

Behind the door, half hidden from sight, was an old timber chest, falling apart with decay. Three quick strides had him crouching down beside it. The thin layers of wood and varnish disintegrated at his touch, spilling forth a large quantity of tarnished golden brown metal.

Slot coins.

Round and regular, embellished on the edges, and slightly greasy. Some had the expected _JB_ in the middle, the fine carving unobliterated by the layers of dust. Picking up another coin, he ran his fingers thoughtfully over it. This was slightly heavier, slightly more browned, and that was surely not _JB_ , but another initial –

 _HR? HB?_

Morse gritted his teeth, frustration welling in the pit of his stomach. In the bad light, it was difficult to make it out, even if he squinted. A thin veneer of verdigris obscured the date of issue, and no amount of scraping would take it off. Leaving it aside for the moment, he turned to rest of the chest's contents.

There was very little else. Cracked old porcelain figures, thickly coated with dust, a number of broken brass rings, and what appeared to be haphazardly hacked pieces of plaster of paris.

Rubbish, to untrained eyes, and so ignored entirely by Uniform. But here were anomalies, sprinkled as thickly as daisies in a summer meadow. He gathered as much as he could in to his arms, and staggered out of the boathouse, back onto the path. He'd have to work his way through them, methodically, and see what they revealed, but he thought that a visit to Belvedere, where the chest and its contents originated from, seemed to be a very good idea indeed.

.

.

Morse spent the most of the morning in boring and unprofitable general duties. Reports accumulated on his desk at an alarming rate, the keys of his typewriter stuck, the water in his bottle had turned to vinegar, and the smoke from Peter's eternal cigar wafted into his immediate vicinity with annoying regularity. He removed the last sheet from the clattering machine and filed it with a sigh of relief. A throbbing headache had formed behind his temples, so he decided to take the reports down to Complaint himself, instead of deploying Jenkins – who was peacefully napping in a corner of the room – as he usually did. Peter, deep in a telephone conversation, made no answering remark to Morse's gestures, except to blow another foul smelling draught in his face, so Morse left swiftly, before the other man had a chance to call him back.

Fortunately, Strange was manning the Complaints desk. Perspiration had already begun to roll in slow, heavy beads down his brow as he dealt with a scowling young man who was lounging on the countertop.

"That's a second offence," Strange was saying, voice laden with just the right amount of reproof.

"I didn't do nothing – anything," the young man said. Slowly, deliberately, he settled his lithe limbed figure into a chair, and directed a piercing glare at the Sergeant.

Strange was unimpressed. "Pub brawl in March, then?"

"That was Larry Nelson. He were – was – feeling up my girl. Drunk and all." He scowled. "I won't have it."

"Knight in shining armour, is it?"

The youth wrinkled his nose. "That stuff is all right for fairy tales. I just tried to do the decent thing."

"This is a far throw from decent, in my opinion."

Morse was interested in spite of himself. He laid his file on top of the pile marked 'complete', and nodded to Strange. "What's the offence?"

Strange cast an eye down the paper laid in front of the young man. "Knickers off clotheslines, Matey."

Morse hastily bit back his laugh as the young man's scowl deepened. "Saw it on the ground and picked it up to put it back on."

"And you just happened to be passing that way, were you?"

"I've lodgings there."

Tapping the paper with his pen, Strange fixed the man with a steady gaze. "Groundsman at Crevecoeur Hall, aren't you? More than a stone's throw from Carson Downs."

The young man titled his head forward, damp blond strands of hair obscuring his eyes. "I've just got the place. Haven't moved out of me – my – old rooms yet."

"Carson Downs?" Morse broke in. "Where did you work up there?"

A slight flick upwards of the man's face. The eyes were a surprisingly clear blue, the jaw and mouth, devoid of the scowl, were both well formed. "Under-gardener at Major Thengardi's. He's up and moved back to Calcutta, and I transferred to the Mortmaignes."

"Thengardi's was the big place with the green fence, wasn't it? Backing on the western side onto Bixby's at Cacklebury?"

"That the place. Enormous parties every week. Couldn't get a wink of sleep, some nights." He eyed Morse interestedly. "Much funny business going on there. Everybody could see it, and your lot was – were – round the place often enough. Caught them on anything?"

"We – we like to be thorough about these things." It was the standard disclaimer, working well enough with the disinterested majority of people they spoke to, but from the sparks that shot from the eyes of the man before him, it was clear the excuse had not gone down well. To his credit, he held his tongue.

Morse tried again. "Been up there much?"

"Oh, now and then, to lend a hand with party preparation."

Ignoring a sudden urge to fidget with his fingers, his hair, anything at all, Morse kept his eyes on the young man. "You didn't come across money there, by any chance? Coins – collections, or in chests?"

"Gold, you mean?"

"Well, that – or copper, or brass?"

The young man shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Nah, mate. They were wealthy all right – even a blind man could see that, but there was never any gravy on the loose. Enough and more slot coins, though. Brought them round by the box from London, him, and that old fellow" –

Morse whipped his head around so fast his teeth rattled. "Old fellow?"

"Natty suit. Spectacles. Rumour was round that he'd been in the nick."

"Harry Rose." Morse met Strange's eye. "What else did they bring from London?"

"Statues – cups – brought in a load of stuffed toys, once."

Quietly, without hassle, Strange leaned forward. A slight list to the left, just enough to require Morse to move a step forward to hear the next question. "No jewels or gems among the lot?" Strange made no mention of pearls, or earring at all, and lowered his voice, ignoring the interested looks that Holbrooks and McNutt, just passing, sent their way.

"Not that I'm aware of." The man dropped all pretence, and stared at them in disaffected curiosity. "You'd do better asking the waiters who were hired for the parties, or the housemaids. I've not been round there often enough to know any details. Look," he said, addressing Strange, "if you've quite finished with me here, can I go back to Carson Downs, I'm late for cricket practise" – he broke off, eyes fixed on a point behind Morse.

Morse did not have to turn to know who was standing there. The cigarette smoke curled around him in spirals, striking deep into the cloth of his shirt and suit, the skin of his cheeks and nose.

Jakes stepped up to stand right beside him. "The old man asked for you," he told Morse, leaning casually against the counter, conveniently spilling a tiny amount of ash onto Morse's sleeve, "he's in Bright's room. They both want a word with you."

* * *

 _To be continued…_


	4. Animal Instincts

Water Canvas

Chapter 4 – Animal Instincts

* * *

There were occasions when Superintendent Bright resembled a chicken.

A most flustered chicken, Morse decided, when Bright squawked and directed a piercing look at him through his spectacles. "You can't be serious, Morse!"

"I am," Morse insisted, stepping forward and resting his knuckles on the thick, gleaming oak of the table top. He could never understand why people thought he was joking – or worse, lying – when he had made it very, very clear that he wasn't. Joycie, Peter, Bright – even Strange, sometimes – only Thursday saw – often better than Morse himself – what he said, what he meant, was the only person willing to give him a chance to prove himself.

But that man was not fighting his corner now. He sat, motionless, in his chair before the desk, puffing at his pipe, eyes half closed.

Bright ruffled up even more. "You want to go cantering off to London on the strength of the word of a knickers thief!"

"We've proved he didn't steal the knickers, Sir" –

A pale pink flush rose up Bright' neck, and brought colour to the apples of his cheek. Evidently, knickers was a painful subject. "You went haring down to Bixby Manor last night, didn't you? And what came of that – a broken down old pirate chest, and a few mouldy coins and china."

Thursday cleared his throat. "There's something strange about those coins, Sir. The coating of verdigris won't come off – they've tried everything from scraping to soaping, but no luck."

"Really, Thursday, I don't see the relevance. Just say, for the sake of hypothesis, that this Harry Rose did bring the coins from London. They have been lying there for years from all accounts, and might not in any way be directly connected with this case. This boy's statement is peripheral evidence – he is not privy to the inner workings of Bixby's companies. And a statement drawn in connection with a completely separate case – and under pressure, though that we might put down to unavoidable circumstances" –

"He is a reliable witness," Morse cut in tersely. "His statement is detailed, and consistent in every regard" –

Bright tapped his cigarette sharply on the ashtray. "It is a highly irregular proceeding, Morse!"

And there it was again. Caution, procedure, regulations. They smothered him from every side like a blanket made of elephant skin. He eyed Bright boldly, and did not hold back the sigh that came from the very depths of his lungs. Let it be construed as insubordination if it must – he had long since ceased to care. "We've been having our eye on Harry Rose for some time now, Sir. He was at the core of the Bixby matter, and he's likely tangled up in this murder as well."

"Conjecture, pure conjecture" –

"It won't have chance of becoming anything more substantial unless you let me investigate, Sir."

Bright stared at him for a long second, eyes dark and crackling with electricity. "Let _you_ investigate," he said at last, each word formed long and precisely between his lips, "might I remind you, Morse, that you are still only a Detective Constable. You have been given considerably more free reign than your… your unorthodox methods and inability to follow rules have merited. Do not presume upon the favour of your superiors, and do not abuse your privileges!"

Morse's collar itched. Thursday's eyes were drilling into the back of his neck now, hard, hot, unrelenting.

Yes, Sir," Morse ground out.

"What are your other leads?" Bright asked Thursday, eyes skittering away from Morse, as though he'd be burned if he stared any longer.

"She'll certainly be the girl from Meadowfield."

"No missing person report has come through there, yet?"

Thursday snorted, and blew out a perfectly circular ring of smoke. "The horse will be long gone by the time they close that particular stable door, Sir. Routine inspection – health and safety – all young girls bunched up together there… that's the angle we'll have to take."

"Well, well, we'll see what we can do. The Head of the Board of Governors occupies a prominent position at the Town Council. It is a delicate situation, very delicate" –

Morse clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked, and Bright and Thursday both whipped around in alarm. "I don't see what's so delicate about a girl being murdered. And she wasn't sent off in her sleep, was she – a force of that nature applied to the neck wold certainly cause great pain."

"Good God, Morse." Slowly, deliberately, Bright stubbed out the butt of his third cigarette. "For a man of such profound intelligence, you can be incredibly obtuse on occasion."

Morse gazed back unblinkingly.

The heat left Bright's eyes. "If… the anger of certain parties are aroused, if they get the slightest whiff of any suspicion surrounding them, we – the Police, the Cowley Station in particular, would be in very hot water. Irreversible damage would be caused – our credibility lost, our power to run investigations our own way – gone forever."

Morse felt his shoulders sag, the breath leaving his lungs with a stale whoosh. _It doesn't matter_ , Morse thought dully. _In the long run,_ _it would never matter._ Cream sunlight filtered in through the gaps in the heavy curtains, illuminating the dust mites that swarmed up in spirals behind Bright's head. Tiny tornadoes, cyclones, circling, circling. _World without end._ "So we let them be then, Sir? No pushing, no prodding, jut everything-in-the-garden-is-lovely" –

"No." Thursday's tones struck with all the force of a whiplash. "Let them think we are letting them be."

"Precisely," Bright murmured. "Other avenues, another million ways…"

"What about Harry Rose, then, Sir? We've been keeping tabs on him since the last business. Mostly, things seem clear, but there are opaque patches here and there, times unaccounted for, transactions that are mysteriously short on detail" –

"Heavens, boy, you have a bee in your bonnet about that man. He has been on his sickbed since Bixby died. Are you suggesting he got out of bed, made an assignation with this girl, went up to the river, strangled her, threw the body into the river, and made his way back home and into bed without any of his numerous companions noticing?"

"No, Sir. But there might be accomplices. He's got a large network. Maybe she was involved – drug running, couriering, hostess – whatever it was, she'd have been bright, making her way up the ladder at Meadowfield. Likely she'd have figured something out, alarmed him. Rose could easily have sent a henchman to carry out the murder."

"Nonsense, my boy. I do acknowledge you have certain… capabilities… but running on the evidence we have so far, you are merely jumping to conclusions." Bright drummed his fingers on the desk, directed another electric look at Morse. "I will not grant permission for trips so far afield as London, or interviews at Meadowfield or with Rose as long as there are leads to be pursued closer to home. What else have you to go on, Thursday?"

"The absconding dog and the missing trophy, sir," Thursday said comfortably.

"Ah. Quite, quite. Well, see to that first, then." Bright nodded at Thursday and Morse, dismissal clear in his tones. "Carry on."

.

.

"Why didn't you back me up with Mr Bright?"

Thursday looked up from his tobacco pouch. A line appeared between his eyes. "You've got to learn to fight your own battles, lad. And you've got to learn to pick the right ones, too."

"You know I was right about Rose." Morse stepped up to the Inspector's desk, laid his clenched fist on the table. "And your opinion has got more weight with Bright. Always."

Thursday's eyes slid from the whitening fingernails of Morse's hand to his eyes. The gaze flicked downwards, moving in a circle, taking in the purple smudges under Morse's eyes. "I know you're right," he said abruptly. "But I won't talk for you anymore. Been doing that far too much. Doesn't look good, copper who can't stand up for himself." The words hurt. All the more because unexpected, the lingering sting lashing open wounds he had thought were knitted for good. Perhaps the pain showed in his face; the puckering of the brow, or the sudden whitening of the lips, because a fleeting expression of remorse sprang across Thursday's face.

"You – you think I can't stand up for myself," More said evenly.

"I worded that wrong. You've got the guts in a pinch – kept on telling you that, haven't I? But I've been speaking too much on your behalf to Bright and the rest of the big noises."

Frustration welled like lava in Morse's stomach. "I thought the truth mattered. I thought it was enough."

"With men like Bright, it is. He'd listen, as long as you spoke the direct facts, and kept a civil tongue in your head. But there are others – Chief Constable, for starters – there's more to convincing them than that. There's an art to talking, Morse, and sometime you've got to figure it out."

"Pomp and pageantry." The words came out harsher than he'd expected. He made no move to catch them back. "That's what Strange says does the trick – he's learned it, all right. Just empty words and flattery with frills on. It's never been my way." He had not needed it until now. Not in the softer, mellow-edged years of his childhood, not when Gwen demanded it and didn't get it, not in Lonsdale, or in the Army.

Thursday drew in a long breath of tobacco, and eyed him thoughtfully. "Sounds like a broken record, but you're not a bit less than Inspector material. You have to learn to marshal an argument if you want to make it in our line of work."

Morse laughed, the sound scratching at the tissue of his throat. "I'm not sure I want to do it anymore."

"You came back," Thursday said softly. "You could have thrown the towel in, but you put your back in to it."

With a suddenness that astonished him, the energy went out of him in great, rolling waves, leaving behind an aching fatigue that seeped into his bones and settled there. His legs began to hurt, the toes of his shoes pinching his feet where the leather had shrunk with the wet. Slowly, he collapsed into the chair in front of Thursday's desk, fixed his gaze, now clouding at the edges, on the scratched and stained green velvet of his governor's pen cleaner. The room was lighter than Thursday's, the air richer, pungent with the fruity strains of tobacco. Behind him, muffled by the heavy door, the offices buzzed like a swarm of distant angry bees.

"I don't know," Morse said wearily. "I'm thinking that might have been the wrong decision."

Thursday let out a hollow, rattling cough. "Thinking that way is common to us all. Some get over it. The ones that don't, they learn to live with it. As long as people need us, we'll be there. And I don't see you packing it in any time soon."

"It's changed – all of it."

"Adapt."

"I don't seem to be having much success at that." Morse paused, worrying at his lower lip. Shadows reared up at the back of his mind, dark, dynamic and mysterious, thoughts half-formed and unexplored, concerns he had never voiced before. He decided to take the plunge. "I thought they – they wanted me back, that it would... right itself, eventually. That hasn't happened."

"You did all right on the last case."

Morse shut his eyes. "It isn't enough."

"You're digging too deep, casting the net too wide." Thursday's tones were unexpectedly gentle. "Start with narrower leads. The dog and the trophy – you can do that today, Jakes can go with you. Work up from there. Forget about London for now. We'll do Meadowfield together."

Morse opened his mouth, but Thursday cut across him. "It's never enough, lad, but that's another thing you've got to learn to live with."

.

.

Detective Sergeant Jakes was sulking. A heavy silence blanketed the interior of the Jag as it rattled over the last few miles to Cacklebury. Equally heavy was the frown on Peter's brow, and the taut, rigid set of his shoulders. Smoke curled over his lips and nose, filling the cramped space with a heady odour. Morse shuffled in his seat, hands twitching around the steering wheel. Cigarette smoke was a menace. It seeped into his skin and heated it, into his throat and made him cough, and into his clothes and made him sneeze whenever he took off his coat. And it wasn't even his own smoke. Wherever there were people there was smoke, rolling over them like fog over a landscape.

Peter took no notice of Morse's irritation. Morse leaned across Peter and opened the window. Some of the smoke whisked away into the air, and Morse breathed a sigh of relief.

Then Peter's lip twitched.

"What?" Morse asked aggressively.

Peter's eyes darted to his, held their gaze for a long second, then fixed themselves on the dashboard again.

" _What?"_

"Thought about moving back into town yet?"

Morse stared. "Why?"

"Thought you rented that dachas for the summer."

"Summer isn't over yet."

"But you've started working again," Peter pointed out. "And with all those nights you're doing, bussing back and there in the wee hours of the morning isn't advisable, mate. There's some sneaky buggers out about in those properties this time of year."

Morse's eyebrow rose. "So you do believe me about Harry Rose."

Peter shrugged. "You've got to admit, it sounded farfetched at first – but nothing better has cropped up yet – well, Rose is well known for smooth operations" –

Morse maintained eye contact.

"All right, all right" – Peter flung his stub out of the window – "Rose is probably involved. But we are not going to see his bloody dog!"

Morse snorted. "The dog is missing. We won't be able to see him, anyway."

Peter ignored this last comment. "Think on it," he said abruptly. "Be good to be on the spot. You'll get your Sergeant's in no time, and then" –

"I highly doubt" –

"Opportunities will come up." Peter sounded firm, and Morse swallowed his protests. "Watch the pub owner – Mr Nellison," he added as Morse pulled up outside a large redbrick house with a porcelain sign that declared it to be the Grey Goose, "lads round the place say he's a bit of a clever bugger."

.

.

The pub owner was indeed a bit of a clever bugger. The bell jangled as Morse and Peter entered the house, but the room appeared empty at first glance. Filled with deep brown table tops and bar counters, it was darker inside than the cheerful red exterior and wide bay windows foretold. The ceilings were arched, with grooves on all sides of the arches that sent angular plays of shadows projecting onto the wooden planks on the floor.

Grime encrusted glass enclosed some of the shelves. Missed by the cleaners, or perhaps the pub owners just were not particular However, the bottles that were visible on the open shelves lower down seemed clean enough. The bar counter and cashier's station were distinguished by pools of local light, spilling from ceramic lamps hung aloft. The light, though warm and mellow, was shaded by much of the lamp, and threw the parts of the room that were not lit by the windows into greater shadow.

Peter thumped on the bar counter. "Anybody home?"

There was a shuffling by the ancient fireplace, and a small, dark face came into view. "Aye." The man came around the display cases that stood between the fireplace and the bar station. In his sober checked shirt and greyish apron, he blended right in with the surroundings. He squinted suspiciously at the formal identification held out before him, but then his expression cleared. "You'll be here about the dog, then."

"Indeed." Morse did his best to smile. "Mr Nellison, isn't it? What's happened to the dog?"

"Well, you're the detectives. I want _you_ to tell me."

Morse felt his smile vanish. Next to him, Peter scowled. "Very funny," he said abruptly. "What did this dog look like?"

The man leered. "You'd know that if you'd took a look at that report I sent in."

Morse raised an eyebrow. "Indulge us."

"Awright, awright. White body, black legs. Humungous feller. Got a bit of a patch on his ear."

Morse and Peter exchanged looks. This was confirmation enough of the authenticity of the report. Peter lit up yet another cigarette. "He is technically not your dog, am I right?"

"Not as the laws go. One of them customers, don't know exactly whose" –

 _Rubbish._ "How can you not know whose? It wouldn't be difficult to see who'd got a hand on his leash, would it?"

"Aye, but they come in groups, like. He's in through their legs one minute, and fast asleep in front of the fire the next."

There was more to it than that, if the crimsoning complexion and darting eyes of the man were any clue, but Morse decided to let the matter drop. "Intelligent dog, was he? Companionable?"

"Aye, that he was. Good natured, and friendly with the other animals too. The awd cat is miserable without him." A large elderly tabby of indeterminate colour, who'd been peacefully sleeping on the counter, roused up at the sound of his name, and looked at the three of them out of eyes shining with benevolence. Peter reached out and scratched him lightly under the skin, and he started up a deep purr of contentment in response. "Mind you," Nellison went on, reaching out for a rag from the shelf behind, and beginning to polish the shot glasses on the tray nearby, "he'd always had a nose for trouble. Could spot a row brewin' a mile away."

"Rows among the patrons, you mean?"

"Some of the fellas have bar tabs, but a few too many pints into the night – and you know what's it's like. He was one for the peace and quiet, he was, liked to lie abed aside of the awd cat. Got right sharpish when trouble broke out. Had a close shave or two, when some tried to strike him."

"But there were no actual attacks?"

"Naw. Nothin' like that. A few quiet words an' he'd settle right back down again. By gum, he may have been only a mutt, but he were quick to carry out his duties, he were."

"What was that? Pub bouncer?"

"Aye, you can laugh, as you like it or not, but that weren't all he did, by a long shot. Errand boy he was, around this place. Put anything in his mouth – newspapers, the missus' bread baskets, anything at all – he'd carry it right safe around the villages. Friends used to send Christmas gifts for the place round this way by him, too."

At the peripheries of Morse's vision, colours and shapes were beginning to blur, the browns and greys running together to make mucky ochres, the long, lean forms of barman and bar counters acquiring softly rounded edges. The man's voice too, had lost its irritating scratchy tone, replaced by a vaguely pleasant hum. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Peter trying to stifle a great big yawn behind his hand, and immediately felt himself starting to yawn also. Trying desperately to blink some of the sleepiness out of his eyes, he stepped away from Peter, and made his way towards the back of the customer area.

Whiffs of the tail end of Peter's conversation trailed after him. "Must be indeed a valuable addition to your household, even if he isn't yours" –

"I'll tell you this, young man, that there dog's price is more than rubies" –

A few more steps, and Morse reached the end of the regulation seating area. There was no doorway, but a large wooden frame clearly indicating a separation. Three steps led down into another hall, which was cast in a different aspect to the rest of the pub. The soles of Morse's shoes clacked on the rough tiles as he descended, almost tripping him when he caught his toe in a rack between tile and grout. This hall was narrow and long, so long that very little light reached the far end of the space, shrouding it in shadow and darkness. No arches on the ceiling here, just a low, unbroken expanse of dun coloured cement.

And all around him, the air was thick with menace. It swarmed about him, grabbing at his throat and sleeves with phantom fingers, making him shiver despite the raging heat of the day.

Windows set into the long opposite walls, high and narrow, allowing fleeting glimpses of the gloomy forest outside. High, low-backed chairs around tables with deep grooved marked on each side. And again, illuminated by the same circular ceramic lights. Idly, Morse ran a finger inside one of the grooves. No dust.

He walked further, now moving far beyond the reaches of the room that his cursory first glance had registered, steps guided by the train of windows that gleamed like mirrors in the gloom.

Except –

Frowning, Morse hurried between two of the tables, reached his hand out – and was met with a cool, solid smoothness. Half-mirrors, then. Barred, grilled and sashed to resemble a window, the panes of glasses tinted a sharp silvery blue to match the skies of high summer, day or night. Like the table tops, they were clean, and clear of fingerprints.

Taking hold of one of the sashes, Morse tugged. It didn't budge.

Carefully, he felt along the edges of the bars. Like steel, it was cool to the touch, painted black to match the bars of the windows – but the paint flaked, scattering minute particles that stuck to the grease of his hands. The rest of the bars looked just as unblemished as the glass, expect for one bar, at waist height, which was slightly crooked.

He reached out again, this time with both hands, and threw everything into his wrench.

With a crack like a bullet discharging, the mirror swung open.

A fine sheen of chalky powder dust rose into the air, setting him off spluttering and coughing. When he'd recovered, eyes streaming, he took stock of the contents. Ceramic. Not the bone-china lightshades that decorated the rest of the house, but true, delicate porcelain; crockery, statues, and busts, gleaming, fragile and translucent, washes in an array of light colours.

The next two mirror cupboards provided nothing more exciting than spare hosiery and cutlery, but when he opened the third one, Morse stared. Cramped up in that dark, narrow space were two gleaming metal slot machines.

.

.

At first, Morse thought Mr Nellison would say "I don't know nothing about these things", "I've never seen them things in my life before", or some variant thereof. But he merely stared at the Uniform police pulling the contents off their shelves, adam's apple bobbing in the dark throat, the beetling brows drawn down deep over the eyes.

"I don't see what this has all got to do with you," he said abruptly. "This ain't pertinent to your inquiries of a missin' dog."

Morse snorted. "This is dishonest trade you're doing. Your license is to run a public house, not a gaming house."

"This is hardly a gaming house. Two slot machines – just for fun. I can't stop the patrons from havin' their time of a night, can I?"

"Who supplies you with the machines, Mr Nellison? Is it Harry Rose? Did you buy anything from him, or his associates? And while we're talking about that, let's see – how much did you earn from this little racket? Little bits first, eh? A fiver, a tenner every time a customer drops a pound. Then, later on, the big cash comes flowing in" –

Nellison's lips whitened. "I ain't heard that names afore. And I'm doing nothin' except me business, just runnin' the pub as best I can."

Uniform were swarming all over the house now, examining every nook and cranny. They'd taken out box loads from the cupboards. Even more porcelains – large, hefty vases unlike the delicate figures of Morse's initial discovery – decorated with bits of metal and semi-precious stones, some items of brass, valuable crystals, and – Morse hadn't been able to stop himself from pointing it out rather gloatingly to Peter – a few boxes of slot coins, heavy with verdigris.

He reached into the nearest box, and picked out a sponge bag full of the slot coins.

"Look at this," he said to Nellison, holding out one of the coins – "what's the initial, can you make it out?" He waited until the man's gaze flickered. "I think you can – and I can, too. It's a _JB,_ isn't it? And look at this" – he turned the sponge bag over, revealing two jagged teeth marks underneath – "this is why you're so keen to have that dog back, aren't you? He's the go-between for you and your supplier. You've trained him to go there, get the thing, and carry it back here in his mouth. The perfect little errand boy."

A bead of sweat formed on Nellison's brow. He raised his head. "I'm not sayin' a word more till I've seen me lawyers." He shot them a last defiant glare, and followed the Uniform constable out.

Peter watched him go, carelessly flicking the ash from his fourth cigarette onto the floor. He'd let Morse do the honours, arresting the man for impeding police investigations, and unlawfully operating a gaming house. He hadn't said a word, just smoked and watched Morse reading Nellison his rights.

Now he gave Morse one of his sidelong glances. "I don't know how you do it, mate," he said. His voice was teasing, but the tone was somehow light and warm all at once. Morse waited for the usual rush of annoyance and defensiveness to come bubbling up, but it didn't. "You're a like a dog, sometimes," Peter went on, "sniffing out the jackpot every time."

"Ah well," Morse said, quirking his lips slightly, watching Peter's eyes beginning to smile back in response, "I suppose that's animal instinct."


	5. Brains Trust Conference

Water Canvas

Chapter 5 – Brains Trust Conference

* * *

There were five twisting gravelled miles from the first turning by Lake Silence to the village cricket grounds at Carson Downs. The sun was directly overhead when Morse and Peter set off, shining down upon the bonnet of the Jag with such intensity that they could almost see the steam rising from the gleaming metal. Soon, the large swathes of gigantic, dark fir trees and the constant rustling of the wind through their branches had disappeared, replaced by the vivid greens of the more usual summer flora, meadows and fields with grasses cropped short by feeding cows, the verdure dotted here and there by water holes.

They drove through the little town in a matter of minutes. It was no more than a cluster of shops, several pubs, and a few house lying scattered, seemingly lost on the far reaches of the lake – sleepy even in mid-afternoon.

The cricket ground was right at the end of the village.

"There it is, then." Peter shut the door with an unnecessarily loud bang. Morse scrambled out after him. Like most village grounds, this one was small, and not in the most immaculate condition. A few dilapidated benches were perched forlornly near the boundary, next to an equally lonely looking scoreboard. A lopsided sign strung up outside the clubhouse proclaimed it to be the Loiterers' cricket ground.

Peter looked at Morse quizzically. "You ever played, mate?"

"No – no, I didn't. My school didn't have a team – it was mostly football that was played there." Of course, he hadn't played that either.

"And at Oxford?"

Morse huffed out a laugh. "I did cross country running." And a fair bit of running for his life.

"A far throw from the gentlemen's game, eh?"

"Oh, I don't know. You need endurance – not so different from test cricket, I imagine."

Peter's lip twitched. He let out a blast of smoke, ignoring Morse's involuntary shudder as the evil odour assaulted his nose. "Didn't quite expect you to know that. Still, you should give it a go sometime. If anybody was going to be good at it, it would be you."

Morse stared. "And why's that?"

Peter began to walk towards the building. "You're a stubborn bugger, Morse. If anybody's got the tenacity to stick to the crease for days at a time, it'll be you."

.

.

The clubhouse was as humble as the grounds, just a single large room with wooden planked floors and windows overlooking the turf, where practises were evidently going on. On the left was an ornately carved cabinet with glass panels, beautiful and delicate, and absolutely empty.

Peter whistled. "That's where they kept it, then."

"Yes, that's where we kept it."

Morse spun round his heel. Peter, evidently conscious of his status as senior detective, took his time.

A giant of a man loomed over them. Ruddy cheeks, a beer belly, a thatch of grizzled hair, and honest blue eyes to match. He held out a hand. "Dane Staines. President and coach of Carson Downs Cricket Association." A grand name for a village club, and one with not more than twelve members, by the looks of the motley crew outside. Staines' hand was as hard as diamond, and Morse tried not to wince as his hand was crushed in the other man's grip.

Peter took over the routine questions. The trophy was for the village league, which was sponsored by a different village side each year. The sponsoring side had a new shield cast as the prize every time, and this year it was the responsibility of the Carson Downs team. They had ordered it a month previously, and it was delivered two days ago. Yes, he had locked the cabinet himself, and the key had not been out of his possession since then.

"It won't have made much difference whether you had the key or not, Mr Staines," Morse said, examining the lock with interest, "this is a simple garden lock. Anybody who's handy with a hairpin could have got past this."

Staines frowned. "We've never had reason to be unhappy with the security arrangements until now. We operate on ethos of trust here."

"Why have you called your grounds the Loiterers', then?" Morse asked swiftly.

Staines looked shocked. "Loitering is completely different!"

Peter snorted. "Loitering is a crime. Specifically, loitering with intent."

"You won't get that sort of loiterers here," Staines said firmly. "These are all hardworking lads from the shops and farms round-a-bout. Why, even the casting of the prize was done by one of our boys here."

Morse and Peter both stared. Peter broke the silence first. "And you didn't think to mention that before?"

Staines shrugged. "I didn't think it was that important. He's a trustworthy fellow – delivered it here with his own two hands – couldn't have been him breaking it out again, would it, now?"

"Can't say till we question him."

"It doesn't make sense," Staines persisted.

Morse smiled. "Petty criminals aren't always sane. That's why they're usually easily found out."

"We've never had any trouble with him – or any of them – before this. It's out-of-character, if you ask me."

"We'll be the judges of that," Peter told him. He stubbed out his cigarette on the nearest ashtray, then felt in his pocket for the pack, and opened it. It was empty. "All right," he went on, scowling, "have you a photograph of the trophy?"

"As it happens, we took a couple of snaps when we brought it in. Good job we did too, because by evening it had vanished." Staines led them into the next room, a small, plain chamber with a desk and a cupboard which clearly functioned as an office. On the wall hung a noticeboard, and pinned to it were two photographs of the missing trophy. It was a nice trophy, More had to admit, perhaps more expensive than a simple village league warranted, but the finely calculated proportions and delicate finish spoke of workmanship of the highest calibre.

But the more he looked, the more familiar that material seemed. That infinitesimal glimmer, the delicate wash –

"Porcelain, is it?" Morse inquired.

Staines looked surprised. "Indeed it is. Not what you'd expect of a trophy – we'd been thinking of pewter or brass, but our boy does some good work in the fine arts, and said he could do us this shield for less than a professional job would cost."

With a finger, carefully, so as not to damage the fine gloss sheen of the photographic surface, Morse traced the statuesque curves of trophy. "A little larger than your usual sports shields. And these bold lines, the patterns – reminiscent of Art Deco. Slightly more delicate than a piece of that style alone would be – some influences of the Arts and Crafts movement too, I'd imagine."

And set in a ring into the ceramic, right round the curve leading up from the handle into the cup, were numerous small gilt balls that shimmered like pearls.

Somewhere to his left, a muffled snort sounded. Morse swung round and glared mildly. Peter was clearly having a field day. He was not sure exactly when Detective Sergeant Jakes had become Peter – sometimes cynical, often teasing – but still, at the end of it all, he was just Peter, and the closest person to a friend Morse had, next to Strange. "What?"

Peter shuffled his feet. "An art thief on the loose, you reckon?"

For a moment, Morse closed his eyes. Almost against his will, the images swam before his eyes.

The scarf. The girl's torn earlobe.

And the memories of this morning, jumbled and frayed at the edges. The dusty cupboards and the slot machines, the dim pools of light spilling over the ceramic shades. Coins with a veneer so green it would not diminish.

There were patterns here. Threads that pulsed like heartbeats, threads that were slowly joining together to form ungainly, nebulous spider webs. Morse opened his eyes, blinking in the bright light of the day. "We need to speak to the boy who made the trophy for you."

"As you wish. That's Jack Edgar you need." Staines went to the window, and peered out at the players practising. Perhaps the glare that lay thickly over the pitch was interfering with his vision, because he squinted, then pursed up his lips. "Ain't clear if he's arrived yet, but if he has, he should be taking his turn at bowling right there at Duckweed end."

.

.

"Watch out!"

Morse yelped, swerving wildly to his left and smacking solidly into Peter, as the white leather ball thudded into the dust where his foot had been moments ago.

Their acquaintance of that morning, the young blond groundsman from Crevecoeur Hall, came up to them, grinning widely. "I did say, watch out. That's what you get for walking on the pitch."

Peter's lips curled. "It's hardly a pitch. Holey as a piece of cheese, and no creases marked."

"Ah, we'll get round to doing it later in the day. Good players don't need no – any – white marks, anyway. We can measure up the lengths by instinct."

Peter squared his shoulders and looked ready to argue, but Morse broke in before he could speak: "Is this Duckweed end?"

The young man's grin reached Cheshire proportions. "You can judge for yourself," he said, and jabbed his thumb at the boundary rope a few feet away. Directly on the other side was a water hole, where the weed in question was growing in large quantities. A vast, tangled mess of stalks, spilling unchecked over the banks of the puddle onto the muddy grass that sloped up towards the field.

Leaving Peter and the young man behind, Morse stepped over the rope and walked to the pond, and peered in carefully. A rank stench accosted his nose, filling his lungs, making him retch. Carefully refraining from drawing breath, holding his handkerchief to his nose, he reached in and drew out an object that was lying half submerged in the water.

A ball. Damaged white leather turned a soggy, filthy brown, mud dripping off the seams and running down his coat sleeves in thick, slimy droplets. There were more in the water, partially hidden by the profusion of weeds, but colour and shape clear enough to send memories swimming back to him: other bodies of water, other discoveries.

When Morse made his way back to the other two, the young man took the proffered ball with a distinct wrinkling of his nose. "Thanks. You can understand why we just leave them balls in there when they go over the rope. This one isn't that badly damaged, though. Seams ain't – aren't – unpicked yet, and the surface could be shined up enough once all that mud's taken off."

Morse nodded. "You use these to – er – bowl, do you?"

The young man looked up and smiled. "That's right. What brings you here, anyway? Case of suspected match-fixing, eh?"

Peter's eyes flickered. "You suspect anyone of match-fixing?"

The man held up his hands. "Not at all. Just a joke. And I didn't steal no knickers, neither – either. Not that there's much opportunity here."

"We're here relating to a small matter of a missing trophy."

"Oh, that old thing – well, new thing. Can't say what's happened to that, certainly."

"We'd like to speak to Jack Edgar. We hear it was he who made the trophy."

The youth nodded. "Yes, it was. He's a talent that way. But you won't find him here today." He cast a glance over his shoulder, towards the gaggle of young men gathered near one end of the boundary. "He was up this morning, but left in a hurry – just a few minutes after I arrived, actually."

Morse could feel Peter stiffen beside him. A slight straightening of the shoulders, an almost indiscernible brush of his coat against Morse's. And Morse could feel his own breath quickening too, the pulse picking up in his throat and at his wrists.

"Done a bunk?" Peter whispered.

"Could be."

"Was he upset?" Peter asked out loud.

"Looked so." The groundsman's brow wrinkled. 'Might've been called away to an emergency, though. The post office sends someone down with a telegram or a phone call if it's urgent."

An urgent call – perhaps the threat of an imminent Police arrival.

"Do you know if he's ever been in trouble with the Police?" Morse asked.

"I don't know Jack too well, to be honest. Might've worked some deals here and there, though. He did a lot of good artworks cheap for some sorts. Cheaper than I'd have thought such labour costs, any road. He was kind, though. And a fair player – an all right bloke, you could say."

"Could you describe him for us?"

"Tallish. Bit of a rake, I suppose – fast bowler's physique and all. Blondish hair – might've been brown, though. Not too certain on that point."

Morse nodded, noting it down. "And what about the eyes?"

The youth stared. "I don't go round looking in people's eyes, mate."

Sidestepping Peter's attempt to step on his shoe, Morse held both hands up. "Ah. I'm – er – sorry. Do you know where he works, or lives? Somewhere we might be able to contact him?"

"Staines has got the list – addresses and all. Jack used to work round the Carson Downs' Arts Guild, though I haven't seen him there recently. Don't know much beyond that."

"Mind coming down to the nick and giving us a statement to that effect?"

The man snorted. "Piss off. I've got me – my – bowling to do." He fidgeted, then shuffled his feet, casting quick glances over at the gaggle of men behind all the while. "Look – look, I don't mean to be rude, but it doesn't look that good, bloke like me having an extended conversation with coppers like you."

"All right, we're done here anyway." Peter nodded briskly, then turned and headed back to the clubhouse.

Morse did not follow him immediately. "All right then." He hesitated. "I don't think I asked for your name, before" –

"It's Philip." The young man smiled. "Philip Hathaway."

.

.

The incident room at Cowley nick was nearly empty. It was not particularly populated after seven in the evening, which was the official off-time for the day rota, but today apart from Morse and Peter, the only occupant was Jenkins, who was tranquilly asleep at his desk, and was likely to remain that way for most of the night. Morse was tired too, weary with the heaviness that weighed down his bones as well as his mind. Adrenaline had once been his lifeblood – food and drink coming a distant second – it alone had sustained him through many nights of intensive investigation, rendering his mind as sharp as a needle, but now – now, when he had most need of it, it had deserted him.

Peter however, was very much awake, both in mind and body. And he was staring at Morse, inscrutable eyes fixed on him in that way, both mocking and familiar, that infuriated Morse.

"What?" He asked, aggrieved.

Peter flicked his eyes to Jenkins, then back to him again. "Go home, Morse."

"Thank you, Mother."

A slight twitch of Peter's lips, a mere second's gesture, but Morse had learned to read him well. Impatience – and was that pity? However, Peter wisely refrained from continuing along those particular lines. "Edgar is the culprit for this all right – plain as day."

"He could have been an intermediary. That trophy was a smart piece of work – that calibre of craftsmanship isn't easily seen here. Did you notice the porcelain work at the Grey Goose – it's similar in quality. Grateful customers, isn't that what Nellison said? Could have been Rose – we know he's in the art business. They could be working together."

Peter opened a new pack, lit up, and blew out a series of smoke rings. "And I still say we're looking at three completely different investigations. Look, the murder is the priority here. We've made an arrest with the Nellison case – and there isn't much more we can do for Staines, short of hunting down Edgar. I say we step down and hand those two things over to McNutt."

Clenching his hand into a fist so tight his knuckles cracked, Morse stared back.

For a minute, there was silence between them, a silence so loud it obliterated the snores coming from Jenkins' corner, the dripping of the inefficient tap in the other corner, and the buzz of the incoming night shift officers in the corridors outside. Neither was willing to give, locked in battle of gazes, black on blue.

At last, with a minute roll of the shoulders, Peter looked away. Not defeat, but compromise.

"You still think this dog is involved don't you?"

Morse straightened out his fingers, discreetly rubbing away sweat from his fingertips. "I stand by what I said to Nellison about the dog."

Peter snorted. "You're barking, mate."

Morse had just finished rolling his eyes, and was just about to stick his tongue out when the door opened and Strange came in, bearing a hefty pile of papers under one arm and an enormous thermos under the other. "Got something you might be interested in, Matey."

"Not got Otard-Dupuy in there, have you?"

"Didn't think plain old black coffee would interest either of you. No, it's the reports from the DCs sent to look at costumers and jewellers and find a match for the dead girl's clothes." He dropped the papers on Peter's desk, walked over to the sink, and poured the steaming black liquid into three mugs.

Morse moved to Peter's desk and peered over his shoulder at the reports. Six solid paragraphs on each yellowing page, the words blurring together the longer he looked at them. He nodded as Strange passed him his mug. "I suppose you wouldn't mind letting us have the short version?"

Strange settled himself comfortably at his own desk. "Drew a blank at the jewellers. No pearl earrings sold in any shop within a five mile radius this past six months. Any old prior to that have been traced – and all are solid."

"So they aren't new," Morse reasoned, "family heirlooms, then? Or antiques" –

"Or paste custom jewellery, mistaken for the real thing, torn off in panic by the thief," Peter finished.

"Yeah, that's it," Strange agreed. He sipped from his cup, set it down with sigh. "Costumers turned up a blank as well – but one of our lads had the bright idea to go round the cloth shops as well. We've traced the silk and the satin all right – direct to the Meadowfield academic account."

"Confirmed then," Morse murmured.

"And forensics reckons the garments are hand-sewn. By the girl herself, most likely."

Peter said something that sounded like "Ah." At least that was what Morse expected he meant to say, though it came out sounding much more like a whistle accompanied by a copious amount of smoke.

Morse wrinkled his nose and stepped back hastily. "She's very talented, in that case. You couldn't say it was sewn by a child at first glance."

"Ah well, maybe she took sewing classes there. Vocational school and all – they teach that type of thing, don't they?"

Morse shot a quick glance at Peter, then at Strange. "Maybe she took art classes there, too – come across the tronie – a knowledge of Art Deco – and the Arts and Crafts movement" –

Peter looked as if he had swallowed a very sour lime. "Too far-fetched, Morse. But a handcrafted jewellery class" –

His tiredness vanished. "Wire, paste, and a pearlescent gilt ball" –

"Who did the substitution? Principal, friend?"

Morse shook his head. "Somebody with sufficient strength to strangle her, then throw her in. A teacher, perhaps, or a boyfriend" –

Strange drained the last drops of his coffee and set the mug down with a thud. 'There you are, then. Brains Trust to the rescue every time."

.

.

He was leaving the nick for the night when he bumped into Dr De Bryn on the front steps. The late rush of energy, fuelled by the coffee and his conversation with Peter and Strange was still very much in evidence, bright and strong enough to send De Bryn tottering against the door frame despite his solidity.

Fortunately, De Bryn was a man of quick reflexes; he was upright and steady in less than two seconds, regarding Morse benignly from behind thick lenses. "Ah, Morse; alone and palely loitering, are we?"

"Doctor."

"Late shift on a Wednesday?"

"Time doesn't matter; finding the killer does."

De Bryn followed Morse down the steps and into the car park. "Rest is not contra-indicated for detectives, Morse. With regular use, it is known for considerably improving the mental faculties. And doubly recommended for those suffering long-term fatigue, not to mention" – his eyes sharpened instantaneously, and Morse felt an involuntary blush creeping up his neck – "for those who have an astonishing talent for discovering corpses wherever they look."

"I'm fine," Morse said, for the one hundred and sixty sixth time since his return to the force.

De Bryn's raised eyebrow was reply enough.

"Been to see Bright?" Morse ventured.

"Indeed. DI Holbrook's latest corpse seems to be giving us all an unreasonable amount of trouble." He glanced at Morse again, eyes just as sharp, but kindly rather than rebuking this time. "On your way to the bus stop?"

"Er – I might walk back. Buses out to Lake Silence stop running quite early in the evening." He poked at the grass beside the road with his foot, then looked hopefully in the direction of De Bryn's car. "I suppose – can I – any chance of a lift?"

De Bryn said nothing, but his smile was a perhaps a little too understanding as he opened the passenger door to allow Morse in.

.

.

Neither spoke until they had left the Cowley area behind them, De Bryn concentrating on the narrow, twisting roads on the outskirts of the city, and Morse himself now quieted with the first pangs of returning fatigue.

When the tall, dark firs surrounding Lake Silence at the Cacklebury end loomed before them, De Bryn turned to Morse. "There's some news regarding the body of the girl you found in the lake. I'd been meaning to come along to the station tomorrow and consult with Thursday and your team, but no matter, you might as well here it now."

"Oh?"

"Her blood results are back. She was stuffed to the gills with heroin. Not," De Bryn added, making a sharp turn with unwonted venom, "your common or garden variety. Chinese heroin – and a particularly strong strain at that. A far cry from laudanum or hemlock, or the indeed, any of the opiates so beloved by the poets or artists of days gone by. But not, perhaps, an unusual choice for a child fancying herself an artist in the present day."

Morse closed his eyes, let his head fall back against the dust cover on the seat. "So soon after the other business with that boy – Roddy. It's well established in the district, then. Any more suspicious heroin-related deaths turned up, Doctor?"

De Bryn gave Morse a sidelong glance, rattling dangerously over a bump. "You know I'm not supposed to answer that. But strictly on the by-and-low, under the table, between your knees, all that – quite a few have popped up. Death due to other causes, mostly, but certainly the old drugs helped them along the way." He slowed down as they turned off the main road and onto the gravel track that ran right round the lake. To their left, the waters glistened in the light from the streetlamps. "And all young, Morse. Younger than yourself, in fact – not a day over twenty five, the lot of them."

Morse smiled, a smile touched by a bitterness that he could not keep away. "Hardly surprising. I suppose you couldn't say whether she kept a soft toy or not, could you?"

De Bryn shot him a severe look. "I am a pathologist, Morse, not a magician."

"Of course. A, ah – natural mistake. I beg your pardon. There's a possibility she came by it at the fair – just like Jeannie Herne. They'd have gone down there in droves, the schoolgirls."

"Is she not a little tender in years, to be a dealer?"

"Not necessarily a dealer. Maybe she knew someone who worked there, or maybe they came her way through a boyfriend. It wouldn't have needed much – a new experience, a present – how much is needed to form an addiction?"

"Very little. Less than a milligram of the drug, administered regularly over a period of two months will do."

"I see." Morse pressed his forehead against the half-open window. Here by the water and amongst the trees, the edge of the heat was off the summer breezes. The night was cool, pure and sparkling as champagne. "Was the drug a factor in her death? Could she have been drugged to make it easier to strangle her?"

De Bryn nodded, eyes serious. "The dilation of the pupils at the time of death would certainly support such a hypothesis. An accumulation of the heroin in the system over time points to her being a habitual user."

"But a short-term injection – just to incapacitate her, render her nerveless, or senseless?"

"Ah, well. Charioted by Bacchus, rather than an easeful death, or viewless wings." De Bryn drew up at the turning to the path leading to the dachas, and turned off the engine, then looked at Morse, eyes tired, forehead creased. "I'm not a man who gives much thought to the popular concept of the supernatural, Morse, but there are devils, all right. They are there in the hundreds, and they live among us. And the one in our neck of the woods has been troubling us far too long. Find him. Find him and destroy him."

.

.

Morse was already in pyjamas, last glass of scotch in his hand when his eye fell onto the pile of old newspapers on the bedside table, where the dust spiralled up in little cyclones in the beam of the reading lamp. There in the advert columns were the two notices he'd circled earlier on in the week, then discarded after some hours of deliberation. But they'd brought it up again – first Bright, then Peter.

Quickly, before he could change his mind again, Morse took up the telephone and dialled the first number.

She answered on the third ring.

The conversation was short, and satisfying. Yes, she would be available to take him around if he came within the week. No, the lateness of the hour he requested would not be a problem.

"All right," Morse said, letting out a breath he had not known he was holding in, "I'll see you tomorrow evening, then."

* * *

References to John Keats' _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_ , and _Ode To A Nightingale._ Also, one vague reference to a line from Lewis series 9.


	6. Meadowfield

Water Canvas

Chapter 6 – Meadowfield

* * *

Morse had long ago given up on refusing Mrs Thursday when she pushed cups of tea into his hands when he arrived every morning. Often, they had finished breakfast, but sometimes there were bread and butter or freshly baked crumpets on offer. "Win, dear," she'd insist firmly, brushing away his stuttering thanks with a maternal hand, pushing the jar of marmalade towards him as he gingerly nibbled on a slice of bread.

For one whose main source of sustenance was expired tins of Grimsby Pilchards, hacked into with a knife – he still had not acquired a tin opener – the proper breakfast was a luxury he did not often permit himself to indulge in.

And of course, he lived in mortal dread lest she offer to do him a round of sandwiches, but fortunately, he had been spared the ham and cheese, luncheon meat, tomato, and corned beef so far. Unluckily, he had not yet been able to find out what the sandwiches contained on Wednesdays. Neither, it seemed, had Peter or Strange.

Thursday was still rattling around the kitchen, fussing over his tie and coat. Sam was sitting across from Morse, munching at the last of his toast. Joan was downstairs too, adjusting her hat in the dining room mirror – such minute flicks to the left and right that Morse could not see how it could possibly affect her entire get-up, when, quite suddenly, she paused, fingers curved around her hat pin.

Morse frowned.

She was looking at him in the mirror. She often did so and caught his eye, which resulted in a game of see-me-see-me-not, but she wasn't looking at his face now. No, her gaze was fixed somewhere lower down, near his crumpled collar, where his scarf had once lain –

Joan turned, eyes flashing brightly. "No scarf, then?"

He grinned feebly. "It helped me find a body in a river, Miss Thursday. I expect it didn't feel up to regular duties after that." Neither did Morse, but this was not the time to ruminate on that.

"Ah well." Joan shrugged into her coat. Her lips turned up in the merest hint of a smile. "It misses you, I can tell it."

"I'll see it gets the message, Miss Thursday." He'd try telling it, if he could find it – at the back of a cupboard, perhaps, or the bins outside.

Thursday bustled into the room, eyes on his watch. "Time we were off. Get to it."

But as Morse stepped over the threshold, ducking his head against the rambling flowers that swung down from the wall above the lintel, he could feel Joan's eyes steady on his back, and Sam's eyes on his shoulders, wondering, appraising. He could feel, too, the phantom fingers of the absent plaid scarf still about his throat, and the longer he felt them there, the more they ceased to be fabric, and turned softly, warmly human.

.

.

Meadowfield was fortuitously located between a meadow and a field. There the luck ended, for both the institute and for the hapless beings that dwelled within. The property was invisible from the main road, and only when Morse had turned the car – more gently than usual, mindful of the effect of the hard gravel on the brakes – onto the steep curving drive that swept right up the cluster of buildings that formed the school, did they get a glimpse of the complex.

The road took them through an ancient iron gateway, with 'Meadowfield' fashioned on the arch in wire. A gatekeeper, as old and rusty as the gate, shuffled out of a security box at the toot of their horn and opened it for them, watching stonily as they went by.

The main building towered above them; a stern, unyielding behemoth. Red brick, as were many in this district, but comfort was absent here. The reds and oranges were faded with sunshine in the more prominent parts of the façade, those in shadow had darkened to burgundy and ochre; sad and crumbling, coating the attendant air with weariness and a choking dust. There were three separate buildings, the two lesser laid at forty five degree angles to the main section, all assembled on the arc of a circle that abutted the drive.

A united front, tapering away into weedy, insubstantial half structures that buried their backs in the forests around the lake.

"I'll never let my Joanie here," Thursday said as they went into the entrance hall. "Spirited young girls all shut up away in this mausoleum… it isn't right."

Schools were always unnatural. The small village government establishments that Morse had experienced conjured up memories of solid brown desks and chairs laid out in straggling lines, and an overpowering aura of butter and chalk. Why butter particularly, still remained a mystery. And later there were the cramped lodgings in Jericho, with their monotone mess of books and blotting paper, and still later, the minute shipshape rooms at the Police Academy.

And the other schools he'd visited during the course of his career; some institutions like this, where students or teachers had been murdered. Or the others, the empty dust-coated shells of buildings abandoned long since, halls and stairwells echoing with voices that had died away many years ago.

Morse grit his teeth. He didn't blame Peter for not wanting to come here at all.

Their footsteps were loud on the highly polished hall floors. When Morse glanced up, he saw that students had gathered on the balconies, watching them with faces resting on the railings. There were no sounds; just dark eyes in pale faces, flicking back and forth, following the progress of the policemen up the staircase. Once they gained the top, the girls stood staring until they turned left and disappeared through the heavy oaken doors that led to the administrators' offices.

.

.

The headmistress' glare had all the force of an Arctic wind, slicing off a Greenland icecap at gale force. Honed well throughout the years, it was specially calculated to strike terror into the hearts of rebellious schoolgirls.

Unfortunately for her, it had no effect on police detectives.

Thursday stood still between the entrance and the desk, very much in the background, but a stolid, comfortable presence nevertheless, and for this, Morse was grateful. He inched forward, itching to shield his eyes against the midmorning glare from the empty patch of sky visible through the windows, but not taking his eye off the headmistress yet.

It was a battle, and both of them knew it.

The headmistress broke off the engagement first, pale blue eyes flickering as she wheeled abruptly away to face the windows. "Rumours," she said sharply. "Tongues wag all across the town, all the time, Constable. We are a reputed institute, and we have never had occasion be at the heart of a genuine Health and Safety concern."

Morse could see the lines of her arm tightening beneath her smart jacket sleeve as she crumpled the Health and Safety regulations form in her fist. "The location is a little out of the way, don't you think?" Morse enquired. "Teenage girls, full of the joys – the occasional truant or mishap surely isn't uncommon?"

"We are perfectly capable of handling such minor misbehaviour, Constable. Late nights out in the villages, the odd rowing accident on the lake" –

"And runaways," Morse broke in swiftly. A thrill of satisfaction ran up his spine when the headmistress stiffened.

"Girls run away all the time. There is no great mystery there. They usually turn up none the worse for their escapades. Whatever exhaustion or troubles they have are easily put to rest by a bath and night's sleep. There has been absolutely no need to bring in the Police into this, with all the meddling and accompanying harassment. Such trifles do not warrant it."

"This is more than a trifle now, Mrs Sheffield-Pryce." It was the first time he had used her name during the interview, and it shocked her into turning round again. "We have a body," he went on, ruthlessly ignoring the pallor of her skin as the blood drained from her face, "a fifteen year old girl. Her clothing has been directly sourced to the Meadowfield academic account."

A claw-like hand came out to clutch the lining of the heavy wooden desk. "That could be a coincidence," the headmistress said, voice low and haggard. Shakily, she lowered herself into her seat. "Most of the girls make their own clothes – then share them with family and friends. They have many acquaintances in the villages – any one of our students could have passed on the fabric to a girlfriend there."

"That is a highly unlikely possibility" –

"How could you know – you don't know that" –

A short, sharp movement – Morse sensed, rather than saw it – and Thursday made his way to the desk. "We have positive confirmation that a student is missing from your school – we have a witness statement to that effect."

"A student of this school might be dead," Morse said sharply, stepping forward; two, three quick strides and he loomed over the cowering figure of the woman in the chair. "A young girl is lying strangled in the mortuary, and you are still worried about your _reputation_?"

The blow was savage, and it struck home with fearsome accuracy. The woman's chest heaved, scarlet-painted nails reaching for her throat in a desperate bid for air. "There was a ball, on Sunday night – arranged by some of the staff. Most of the students attended. They stay out late, and we didn't know – when we found out, we thought we should wait" –

"It is well past the forty-eight hour mark now," Morse said, and he didn't bother to hide the contempt in his voice, "there is nothing to be gained for yourself by waiting anymore."

He stepped back, next to Thursday, and waited for Mrs Sheffield-Pryce to regain some semblance of balance. When she showed no signs of speaking, he added, "you might tell us her name, at least."

"Lucy." Her lips thinned on the word, as though choking it, trying to drag it back. "Lucy Moller."

Thursday moved in, taking charge, eyes hard and voice thick with suppressed rage. "All right," he said briefly, "we need her academic file."

"And a complete list of staff and students – including visiting staff," More added. Then as if struck by a thought, he cocked his head. "Pottery is taught here, isn't it?"

Mrs Sheffield-Pryce looked up, brows wrinkling. "Both clay and ceramics. It is an excellent program. Surely you cannot" –

"How many tutors in that program? And the sewing program? Any of them visiting staff?"

"All of them. Jack and Michael are village boys, and Miss Churchett comes in from Carshall."

While the headmistress rooted about in her drawers, Morse turned his back on the room and studied the paintings hung on the wall between the large arched windows. Three good copies of Turner, one bad copy of Constable, and three genuine, if somewhat grubby, watercolours from one of the new Oxford lot. Not a patch on Bixby's gallery, either in taste or in forgery quality. And nothing done by any of the students.

In fact, the room was devoid of all traces of being a school – none of the notes or thank you cards expected from alumni. It was exclusively dark, heavy wood and formal curtains – all rigid lines, sharp and harsh – even the light was white and glaring, bringing out the tear tracks on the headmistress' face when she handed the file to Thursday without comment.

"You'll have to come down to the morgue and make a formal identification," Morse told her.

"Mrs Edwards – the girl's house-mistress – can do that." She sounded both frustrated and weary in equal measure. "She knew the girl better than I. And – I have… matters… to attend to here."

Morse let the heavy door screech shut after him as he exited the office, unmindful of the drag marks it made on the dusty corridor floor. Thursday had given him the freedom to conduct the interview as he saw fit, and he was grateful for that. His gamble had paid off – the slow start, the hit at the end. Bright might have been more official, more circumspect, or Strange might have been correct and solicitous, but Morse was tired of games. If the direct way worked, he'd use it.

And there was still one more thing he had to do.

"Sir" – he waited till Thursday turned around completely – "if you can escort Mrs Edwards to the mortuary, I'd like to stay and have a look at the art studios."

"All right." Thursday nodded, then eyed Morse in that sharp, strange way he had, as though he could see right into Morse, and right through him. "All right. Meet you back at the nick then. Mind how you go."

.

.

The art studios were located on one of the side wings, a crumbling building of whitewashed limestone, its back buried in the untidy profusion of shrubbery that surrounded the lake. The land sloped away to the edge of the water, and so the foundation of the building was laid on three split levels, with a ragged stone staircase running through the centre. Morse made his way down the stairs as quickly as possible, trying not to breathe in the overpowering scent of butter cake.

The first studio held nothing of interest. It was dedicated to traditional methods of painting and drawing, with a few incomplete works left to dry on the tables and easels, all showing a fair level of skill. He recognised attempts at copies of some of the old masters, and a few crayon sketches of scenes in and around Oxford, but there were no clues here. Not so much as a piece of silken cloth torn from the girl's headscarf.

The second studio was the pottery room. It was larger than the first, with long airy windows looking over the lake. In the middle of the room were a series of troughs, rough-hewn from wooden pallets nailed together, almost as tall as he was, and three times as wide.

Morse walked swiftly over, and stuck his nose right in.

When his sneezing fit was over, and his damp handkerchief back in his pocket, he gingerly dipped a finger into the mess of broken pieces of clay and china. The brown dust that had so cruelly assaulted his nose had settled, and when he took a closer look, he could see, that just beneath it, covering the larger pieces of ceramic, was a fine white sheen.

This time, careful to shield his nose with his palm, he took some on his index finger, and licked lightly.

It tasted like ashes.

Carefully, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small evidence bag, and dropped some of the white powder into it.

Ten minutes later, he was shoulders deep in the storage cupboard in the metalwork studio. The pottery room had nothing else of interest, but the metalwork stores was a veritable treasure trove. He'd half expected more boxes full of slot coins, but there were none. Instead, the first three shelves on the cupboard was full to bursting with odds and ends of copper, brass and bronze in various stages of patination.

The fourth shelf was covered in white newspaper, and contained a large number of metal stencils with round holes cut out – and the sheets were completely covered with verdigris. He took up the newspaper, ran his eyes along the headlines and date, and smiled.

Then he put the papers and the stencils, along with two bottles of primer and hydrogen peroxide on the shelf below into evidence bags, tucked them away in his pocket, and made for the door.

His final stop was the sewing room, the last room at the end of the building, not more than a few feet from the lake. He was hot now, trickles of sweat making their way down his brow and into his collar, making his skin itch despite the slight breeze that came in through the large doors that were open to the garden.

There were fifteen sewing machines. Careful examination revealed nothing untoward. The lockers in the corner were all unbolted, containing nothing more exciting than a collection of scrap bags, paper feathers, and tiny gold, silver and crystal ornamental balls. For the third time, Morse whipped out his evidence bag, collected some of the balls and stowed it away.

By the time he had finished searching the rest of the room, his shirt front and collar were drenched. With a sigh, he wandered over to the stretch of white wall between the widows, and leant his aching head against the cool stone.

He'd seen the strands of this murder weaving together earlier, as he'd stood in the Loiterer's clubhouse with Peter and Staines. Messy, uncertain, as all investigations were.

Nothing neat, nothing clean. Solving this was like painting on a water canvas. With every swipe of the brush, the mount beneath would ripple and dissolve into puddles.

And yet –

Evidence bags collected from each studio, full to the brim. A nice, shiny trail – leading right to Jack Edgar's doorstep.

Solid, unambiguous; it would be folly to question such good fortune.

 _Convenient,_ Morse thought, turning away from the wall and looking out at the lake. _Very, very convenient._

 _._

 _._

Morse turned about and stepped out through the open doors into the garden beyond. By the building, the grass was yellow and sparse, but towards the lake, the trees grew in a thick tangle. The air was cooler there, and mindful of the state of his soaked shirt and tie, he went towards the water.

No breeze now, and so the water lay still, gently caressing the edges of the shore.

Morse sighed. If he squinted hard enough, he could just imagine that the dark log floating past was a –

"It looks _nothing_ like a body."

Morse spun round, heels sinking into the damp earth.

A girl was standing before him. Pale, in a crumpled uniform, with red hair in a braid and a smattering of freckles across nose and cheeks.

She must have seen the question in his eyes, because she gestured in the direction of the log. "When people stare at a log for such a long time with such intensity, they are imagining it to be something it usually is not."

"And in this case, it cannot be anything other than a body?"

"A crocodile is also possible. But that would indicate a river, rather than a lake."

"Oh?" Morse could not quite hold back the quirk of his lips. "How long have you been watching me, then?"

"I saw you arrive."

Almost the whole school had seen them arrive. There was a curious anonymity about schoolgirls. Perhaps it was the uniform, or the ink stains liberally spattering the hands. They had all looked the same to him, hanging over the banisters in the lobby, as still as statues. He could not have picked her out of the crowd. But even now, as he took stock of her, so she did of him.

The grey eyes regarded him impassively. " _You're_ an unusual copper."

That was a common sentiment among his fellow officers, though it was not often expressed so kindly, or so frankly. Morse shrugged. "What's a usual copper, then?"

"Your boss who came with you. He's a copper all right, I can say at once. He's in charge."

It was a statement, not a question.

The girl stepped even closer. "But you're the one that likes to investigate."

Another unanswerable comment.

Morse dipped the toe of his shoe into the water and kicked lightly, watching a small pool of ripples form at the point of contact. He could see her out of the corner of his eye, also watching the water, the tiny waves eddying out farther and farther towards the log.

"Did you find anything in the studios?" She asked.

He laughed. "Did you follow me all the way down there?"

A shrug of the crumpled shoulders. "I saw you from the woods. There is a direct line of sight from the studio windows."

Her eyes darted up to meet his, then settled somewhere around his nose. "Lucy is dead."

It was strange to hear it said aloud.

When he found the body in the river, it was 'the dead girl'. At the nick, it was 'the corpse'. And there, inside the offices of Meadowfield, which had probably been her home for some years, they had been reluctant to mention her name. As though sweeping her disappearance under the carpet, as though treating it as a schoolgirl's contretemps would somehow wipe clean their mistake, and her death.

As though it would erase her very existence.

He turned and looked at this girl. The grey eyes were blank now, as sharp as stone and far, far heavier. He'd seen the same weight in Bunty's eyes when Maude died, in the eyes of girls gathered round the coffin at Mary Tremlett's funeral. "Yes," he said at last, "she is dead."

She nodded. "When she didn't come back on Sunday night after the party, I knew she was dead."

"Why didn't you report her missing on Monday, then? And why didn't you tell anyone you thought she was dead?"

A long, flat look. "When people don't believe what you say, you stop telling them things pretty quickly."

"True enough," Morse acknowledged. There was a time when there'd been a pair of ears ready and waiting to hear anything he had to say. It hadn't mattered whether the contents were silly or intelligent, or even intelligible. But that time was long gone, existing now merely in his memories, the tangible remainders of that love buried in a desolate Quaker cemetery miles away.

That was also how criminals and victims were made. That small, shivery feeling in the human heart; rapidly souring with the realisation that there was nobody to listen, nobody to believe. And then the dangerous tendrils of _I must do this myself_ , or the more passive but no less dangerous _it doesn't matter anymore._

He looked towards the water, then back at her face, a sharp fleeting glance, and settled himself on a convenient stone. "Is there anything," he said carefully, "that you want to tell me?"

The corners of her mouth twisted up. "Is there anything you can do about it?"

"Yes," he said, and surprised himself by the sheer certainty of his voice. "It might take time," he added – months, years, perhaps; he did not want to tell her that, but there was no need – he knew that she knew – "but in the end, we always catch the killer."

The girl cocked her head, grey gaze fixed on a point near his throat. Suddenly, uncomfortably, Morse felt the phantom fingers of the morning grab at his skin again. "Lucy... was charismatic. She was also clever. People liked her. She was nice, even to me" –

"And the other girls are not?"

A seemingly offhand shrug. "They don't say much, but you know... they wanted to be friends with her. They liked to share secrets, and Lucy listened. And it wasn't just the girls, either" –

Morse kept his eyes on the lake, following the patterns of wind on water. "Which of the tutors was it? Edgar, or the other one – Michael, is it?"

The girl smiled slightly. "You're quick off the mark."

"The case has been going on for a few days now. I expect the younger tutors liked to share secrets with Lucy too."

"More than a few," she agreed dryly. "Lucy had a way with art – craft," she corrected herself, "they indulged her. Jack liked her – he's always decent to us, wouldn't show any favouritism, but when he was with her – you could see it, in her eyes, in his eyes, their faces... and Mr Brierley – that's Michael – too, after a while. He'd never let us call him that. He and Jack are friends, but he's much more stuck up."

"Really? Considers himself the end, does he?"

She snorted, expression lightening for a moment. "And all that. Thinks himself educated and sophisticated no end, and think it'll impress us girls. Mind you," she added fairly, "he may be right in regards to some of the little ones, but he'll have to try much harder than that to get it on with us older girls."

"But with your friend, it was different?" It was a feeler, the subtlest he could manage, but she resisted the bait.

"Lucy knew her own mind, and she was careful. I don't think it went very far at all – she didn't get into trouble, or anything like it. She didn't step out with either of them, not to make it official. No more than a chat or a shared project."

"And how did they take it, Edgar and Brierley, knowing the other was interested in the girl?"

Her eyes grew cold. "Lucy said they liked the competition, but I'd disagree. Jack was uncomfortable, all right, for all those long walks he took by this same road after lessons were done. As for Brierley, I couldn't say. He is not an easy man to read."

"And your headmistress did nothing to stop this?"

"There is much," the girl said, and her voice sharpened like a whip, "very, very much that the administration overlooks."

Morse leaned forward. "Drugs? Clubbing? Anybody moonlighting as hostesses, or work part-time down the pubs?"

The girl looked away, half-smiling. "Oh, part-time work isn't banned. Most of us work down the local pubs and shops at weekends. Couldn't tell you about drugs; haven't seen any. And some of the older ones sneak out to the smart clubs most of the time – oh I know... they say it's out of our league, stick to the village dances and all that, but they do it, and they come back rich."

Hot anger stirred in Morse's veins. "Which clubs? Oxford, or up London way?" A hunch, but now, more than a hunch, almost a certainty – "Night's End? The Rickshaw? The Belvedere?"

"I don't know names – the girls who go up there keep it pretty private. Jack could tell you, though. Or Brierley. They've both done commissions for most of these places."

"I see. Erm – I suppose one of them showed interest in you, as well?"

The edge of her smile became crooked. "I am hardly the type to attract the interests of people like Brierley – or even Jack."

No, Morse thought to himself. All that she was, those sharp eyes, the assembling intellect, those quiet, quiet footsteps, would not attract young men whose interests lay in shadows and mysteries and – most certainly – shady millionaire benefactors.

.

.

Carefully, the gloved hands peeled back the stained white cloth. Lips clenched, palms closed into white-fisted lumps, the woman stared for one infinitesimal moment. Then, as though some spell was broken, she began to weep, pale eyes reddening, tears dotting and darkening the shimmering green of her dress and coat.

Wordlessly, Morse looked up, eyes searing through the cracked glass of the mortuary viewing panel, and locked gazes with Dr De Bryn.


	7. Perspectives

Water Canvas

Chapter 7 – Perspectives

* * *

"Three days," De Bryn said gravely, fingers tightening around the small paper bag.

"Can't make it sooner?" Morse inquired hopefully.

"Afraid not." De Bryn's eyes flicked towards the waiting room outside, where through the dusty pane of glass they could see the teacher from Meadowfield dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and sipping a cup of tea. "The journey requires almost a day in itself – and parcel post will not do."

"Certainly not," Morse agreed. He swallowed, breathing in the minty sterility of the viewing chamber. "All right, get back to me when you can, then."

De Bryn gestured expansively. "All below the table, pass it under-your-knees, eh?"

Morse snorted, following De Bryn to the door, narrowly avoiding being knocked aside by the man's swinging arm. "Forensics will bungle this. And it's not what I'd want getting about – loses us the advantage" –

"Unusual in itself," De Bryn acknowledged. "You'd certainly expect the thing to turn up in stuffed toys at fair ground – no surprise with all the monkey business going around, but a school art studio – an excellent hiding place, if I may say so. Superb bit of camouflage – a certain flair for the dramatic, but subtle in execution – nothing heavy enough to draw attention to itself. Your criminal, Morse, has a very find mind." He sounded rather pleased with the fact.

"Perhaps," Morse agreed cautiously. He patted his pocket, where the newspapers he had taken from the second studio resided, met De Bryn's eye, shrugged and smiled. "But I surmise the hiding place was more an accident than design."

"Disappointing," De Bryn countered, not sounding so at all, and suddenly, Morse was reminded of the glint in his eye and the steel in his voice when he spoke of devils living among them. "But then, you'll get your man, Morse. You always do."

.

.

"Three bags, Matey? Four hours in that ruddy place, and just the three?"

"Yes," Morse replied stiffly. He regretted the abruptness of the answer as soon as he spoke, but it was too late to catch it back now. Strange was – besides De Bryn and Thursday – the only one in the entire nick who didn't laugh at him – Peter did, regularly – and he had no wish to offend his friend. But he'd come up against this so often in the Service – the narrow, dogged focus on collecting clues, the limited analysis which led to a tendency to convict on overwhelmingly circumstantial evidence. His stomach turned with irritation whenever he thought about it.

He breathed in deeply, willing his shoulders to unknot, and his voice to smoothen. "It was enough," he told Strange, and tried to inject a smile into his words. "They span all three studios. And I spoke to some of the teachers and students. You'd better get some uniform down there to take statements, in any case."

Strange's eyes flashed with something hot, and Morse swallowed, stepping back as his neck and cheeks flushed with heat. He could not recognise that glint in Strange's eyes; it was increasingly difficult to read the moods of his friend, particularly after his promotion. But before Morse could speak, Strange's eyes cleared. "I'll pass on the word," he said. "Forensics went down to Edgar's place, too."

"You found the address, then?"

"Aye. Place down by Cacklebury, just out of the village. Barn of sorts, with a hulking great loft filled with knick-knacks of all kinds." He paused for a moment, eyes fixed on the peeling green paper adorning the opposite wall, clearly ruminating on the peculiar residence choice of Jack Edgar. He looked up with a shrug, and met Morse's stare. "But then that's artist folk for you, eh?"

Morse jerked his head towards the office. "The old man in?"

"Busy with paperwork. Not gone out for lunch – probably be having it in there today."

Morse lifted a hand in acknowledgement, straightened his suit jacket, and rapped on the door. It swung open easily beneath his hand, revealing splotches of yellowing light cast from the overhanging lamp and wall sconces onto the threadbare carpet and scratched wooden desk. The blinds were down, unusually for the afternoon, cutting out the white hot glare from the pavements below. One deep breath – two – and Morse could not stop his lip curling up in a slight smile as the faint smell of tomato and onions wafted his way. But that was not all –

There was something else –

Morse wrinkled his forehead, tapped a finger on the desk. "Bloater paste?"

Thursday looked up from a pile of dusty files. "Yes lad. An extra treat from my Win." A flick of wrist, and a column of ashes fell off his pipe onto the ashtray. "Anything promising up at the mausoleum?"

"Could be. I've handed in some samples for analysis – ceramic base material dust, some peroxides and some gilt balls" –

"Lookin' at the trophy angle, are you?"

Morse nodded. "It's the most probable. Did you specify what samples are to be taken from Edgar's?"

Thursday cocked his head, frown lines beginning to creep towards his eyebrows. "Got anything particular in mind?"

Just the slightest hesitation, but Thursday's gaze lingered on Morse's face, eyes narrowing. "Nothing I can put to paper yet," Morse offered at last. The corners of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. "The usual – you know – muddling around."

"You got something in mind, lad?"

"Ask them to collect residue from his work. Porcelain, china, ceramic dust – anything in that line. And newspapers – a note of what he reads, where he gets it from…" He trailed off as Thursday shot him another look; a mere sideways glance, but infused with that singular x-ray quality that always made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"You aren't happy with this, are you? You keep it down, you sleep on it nights, but it don't sit right with you, lad. It's as plain as the nose on your face."

He couldn't help wrinkling said nose. "There are layers to this – more than I thought… when I pulled the girl out of the lake, I wouldn't have dreamed of anything like this. It's a well-designed murder – no doubt about that – by the looks of the evidence we've got" –

"You think the evidence isn't straight then." It's a statement, not a question. "The dust's right enough" –

"It's not their physical nature that's in question. It's the way the evidence is laid out – nothing messy; just the right hints of china and paste and gilt. This strangling was done in hot blood – and then this trail was laid, deliberately to lead to one person. The murderer is clever. He can take the odd incident – something he's done in haste, and turn it to his advantage by intelligent programming."

Thursday grunted. "Cold blooded bugger. Too many of them about."

"He's clever enough," Morse acknowledged. His skin itched beneath his collar where it rubbed against the rough fabric. "But he's also been trained. Double thinking – quick on his feet, with an eye on the long run. And he's played on the weaknesses of his victims – he knew them intimately enough to do that."

"A long-standing feud between teachers? Rivals in love?"

"Or to simply get rid of two inconvenient friendships in one stroke," Morse said grimly.

Thursday's brow furrowed. "Didn't think you'd let go of the Rose connection so fast. You were convinced it was him."

"No. Oh, no." He straightened, curled his hands into fists and poked them in his pockets. "This is Harry Rose, all right. He may not have done it in person, but the philosophy, the lateral thinking – it's him all over."

One moment Thursday held his gaze. Then he bowed his head, dark eyes flickering. "You'll going to see him now then?"

"No." Morse turned, smoothing the lapels of his travelling coat. "I've got two more people to talk to, first."

.

.

He bumped into Strange on his way out, standing on the front steps with McNutt and a few others, watching a series of buses creak their way across the quad and stop at the residential quarters opposite. "New contingent," Strange explained when he saw Morse's quizzical look. "WPCs just qualified, come in from Carshall proper and County."

"We'll be seeing some new faces round soon, then?"

"Not yet," Strange said, watching a straight-backed blonde disembark and head for the wide swinging doors. "The last stage of their training is not over yet. Couple of months, and we'll be getting four or five up here, I reckon."

"That's more vacancies that I'd have thought," Morse said, surprised. "Two or three for Uniform, certainly. But more than that" –

Strange shuffled his feet, eyes falling to the sun-soaked flowerbeds on the other side of the gravel drive. "Roberts and Neilson will be transferrin' to County. And there might be more changes heading our way. Even our department won't stay the same forever." Strange looked up then, and for the second time, Morse swallowed at the heaviness in his friend's eyes. This was not the hot anger of the morning, though. This was something more – was it resignation? A warning? "Young coppers, growing up and moving on… the world's changing, Matey; don't get too attached to anyone. If a man's of a mind to get somewhere in life, he's got to play the game right and plan his moves for the win. There's less stock in doing things the old way, going roaring in for justice and fairness and all that."

"No," Morse said, turning away and going towards his car, "nobody in their right minds could possibly want that, could they?"

.

.

Hot, unfiltered sunlight lay thickly on all the surfaces of Cacklebury village as Morse jerked the Jag over the broken tar of the square, and down the winding lanes that led to the fields. Three or so miles in, the crooked white painted shop fronts, the last outposts of the village proper disappeared, replaced by houses with heavy pelmets at the windows and steeply sloping roofs. Still further along the lake, they vanished too, the landscape giving way to the tangles of trees and bushes that dipped their branches into the water. Oriented to the north-west lay the brownish-white roofs of Meadowfield, visible through the ochre haze.

Brakes squealed as the car laboured up the last few yards of path, rounding a short drive, drawing to a stop outside Morse's destination. He left his coat inside and stepped out, shading his eyes against the glare reflected from the glass in the windows.

Indeed, the entire house seemed to be only a façade of glass windows laid flush against a steel grid, with an aperture cut out – as though with wire-cutters – to serve as a door; a dark splotch at odds with the luminous exterior.

The outlines of a series of rough wooden sheds were visible through the trees at the back.

No hint of a breeze; not even a ripple on the water or the sound of a birdcall.

Silence was the only response to his shouts and knocks, so he opened the door and walked inside. Stretching away beyond him was a narrow, dark corridor, made cool by its low sloping roof, finished with polished cement – unusual in the outskirts of Oxford, though perhaps not so startling in an artist's residence – the corridor curving away to the left just outside his line of sight.

A series of closed doors on either side marked entry into the other rooms. Between each pair of doors was a cupboard, regulation steel frame with clear, insulated glass panels allowing full view of the contents. And what a bounty – rows upon rows of pots, vases and lampshades, all of translucent smooth ceramic or various metals – copper and brass at first glance – all beautifully hand detailed with touches of gilt and silver, or scraped to allow layers of patinas to show through.

Morse tried the lock on the nearest cupboard. It did not budge.

Carefully, stepping on tiptoe to muffle the echoes of his footsteps, he rounded the bend in the corridor. Sunlight streamed in through the bay window to his left, illuminating a large open door at the end of the corridor. He went all the way through, then paused at the threshold to the room at the end, hands braced against the doorframe for support.


End file.
